


Bealtaine: Vola

by Salmagundi



Series: Bealtaine-verse [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Other, Phobias, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:59:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmagundi/pseuds/Salmagundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling apart is easy.  Putting yourself back together... that's the hard part.   In the aftermath of the other nations' 'assistance', America struggles to find his equilibrium and make sense of a world he never realised was so screwed up.  [Sequel to Bealtaine]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Referenced Non-con/Dub-con, serious exploration of the psychological effects of rape. This is not a story for the faint of heart.

~  
  
The first blooms of spring were already fading. Between the rash of bitter cold and the general reluctance of anything in the region to grow at the usual pace, the colors of the season had been short lived indeed. Discount pots lined the shelves, the flowers withered and drooping. America hesitated in front of a pitiful geranium, brushing a finger against one wilted leaf.  
  
"You're going to buy it, you know." The clerk commented, never looking up from his reading.  
  
Blue eyes narrowed a little. Once he might have been amused by the sheer cheek of the assumption, but once and now were two different things. "What makes you say that?" He didn't move from where he was standing, his shoulder brushing against the wall. America was aware of his own reactions in a way he'd never had to be before... well... before. His heartbeat was trying to pick up and he just breathed for a moment, forcing a veneer of outward calm that he fancied he was starting to get good at.  
  
A pause, then the man lowered the magazine, tilting his head as he regarded America with a slight tilt of his head. The look put America on edge - just that feeling of being assessed, of being sized up. It made him feel vulnerable when he knew it shouldn't. "Well," The clerk said finally, "You've been in here every day the last week or so, and you've stared at those same plants every time. S'kinda getting creepy to tell you the truth." This last was mumbled, but he still heard it. "I figured you were maybe a gardener or something."  
  
America could feel the corners of his lips twisting in a sardonic little smile. "Yeah, I'm a gardener."  
  
"Really? Wow. Cuz, I was just guess-."  
  
"No."  
  
A long silence, then the clerk gave a little shrug. "That was harsh, man."  
  
"You're interrupting my shopping experience." America bit off the rest of the words. The ones about how he'd done so much for this country and was it too much to ask for a little bit of peace. They wouldn't do any good and, really, he didn't want to think about the things he'd done - or hadn't. Or the things that had been done to him...  
  
"Hey, I'm just doing my job, man." The clerk got a big giddy grin, "Didn't ever think I'd be happy to say that. It's great just having a job again though."  
  
"Yeah..." More than the money, the fact that the other countries were now clamoring to buy American exports had been a major boost. People like this cashier - _Nathan Tillsdale,_ the voice of inner awareness provided, _Age 23. College dropout. Likes grunge music and comic books. Has a girlfriend named..._ \- were reaping the benefits of the lessening fear of the larger companies. The economy was getting better, day by day.  
  
And day by day, America felt himself slipping.  
  
"-I dunno why, but you just seem like the type." The conversation had apparently moved on without him.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
The cashier peered at him again, his manner shifting towards a sort of stressed reticence. "Are you sure you're okay, man? You don't look so good."  
  
 _No, Nathan Tillsdale, with your grunge music and your hard-earned job at Go-Mart. You have no idea just how not okay I am._ "I'm fine." America offered up a smile that never quite reached his eyes.  
  
"So... uh... are you going to buy that plant?"  
  
"..." America gave him a cold stare, then slowly took a step back. He never quite turned away from the cashier until he was at the door and outside on the street. His legs carried him back toward his house, slowly at first, then picking up speed until he was almost running by the time he hit his front door.  
  
He dropped his keys in the basket just inside the entrance - paused, pulled them out again and tucked them back into his pocket. He checked the locks to make sure they were secure before sighing and trudging down the hallway. The light on the phone was blinking. America hit the button more out of instinct than any real desire to check his calls.  
  
 _You have eight new messages._ The pleasant female voice chimed out.  
  
 _First new message. Monday, April 27th. "Um... Alfred? This is Matt. Is everything okay? You didn't show up for the meeting... C-could you maybe call me back? Um... this is Canada, by the way."_ Click.  
  
Delete.  
  
 _Next new message. Tuesday, April 28th. "Hey Alfred. This is Matt. ...again. I was just calling to check up on you. I um... I hope you call me back soon. ...this is Canada."_ Click.  
  
Delete.  
  
 _Next new message. Wednesday, April 29th. "Al? Did... did I do something to upset you? Was it that thing with Cuba? I wanted to invite you to come with us, but I know that you two haven't been getting along well and I thought... Could you please call me back? I'm getting really worried... This is Canada, by the way."_ Click.  
  
Delete.  
  
 _Next new message. Thursday, April 30th. "L-look, whatever I did, I'm really sorry okay... won't you please call me? It's Canada. ...you know... your brother..."_ Click.  
  
Delete.  
  
 _Next new message. Friday, May 1st. "Al. I - um... Al?"_ Click.  
  
Delete.  
  
 _Next new message. Saturday, May 2nd. "D-do you think you might like to come over today? We could watch one of those movies you like. I bought stuff for hamburgers..."_ A sigh. _"This is Canada."_ Click.  
  
Delete.  
  
 _Next new message. Sunday, May 3rd. "Damn it, Alfred! Can't you at least tell me why you're not talking to me! ...I... I'm sorry... I just got a little upset there... I... uh... damn it."_ Click.  
  
Delete.  
  
 _Next new message. Monday, May 4th. "Please, Al... just call me back... At the meeting today, they were asking if I'd heard from you at all... I'm just - I'm really worried, so please..."_ A soft, choked noise that might have been a sob, then - _"I-it's Canada..."_ Click.  
  
Delete.  
  
 _No new messages._  
  
America stared down at the phone for a long moment. Blinked. Then he reached down and unplugged the phone cord from the wall.  
  
  
-  
  
He was out of the house again the next day. It wasn't difficult to leave, not really, and America clung to that fact. It didn't matter that every step he took further from his door transmuted itself into a heaviness in his stomach. He was keenly aware of the distance, in feet, in inches, in footsteps. He got as far as the little corner diner a few blocks down - From here it would take six minutes to get back to the house at a run, nineteen at a leisurely walk - before he decided it was far enough away. This was becoming a routine, but more than that, it was a need. He had to do it to prove something to himself. Broken meant huddling in his house afraid to go outside. Broken meant that sick feeling of terror at every unexpected noise. This heaviness in his gut that only grew with every footstep away from home was something else. It had no name.  
  
The diner was open, and he went inside. It was something that someone who'd been through a traumatizing experience wouldn't have been able to stand - all these people, the claustrophobic enclosed space that made all of these people so close to touching him. He was ten feet away from the man in the suit - _Fred Derry_ , his mind whispered, unbidden - fourteen feet from the teenager with the headphones - _Amber Hunt_ \- seventeen feet from the old man reading yesterday's newspaper - _Tom Healy_. America was aware of their proximity, and he chose the table tucked into the corner near the door.  
  
The menu shook a little in his grip as the waitress came up to take his order. She paused just a second as he raised his head enough for their gazes to meet, a tiny falter, then gave herself a little shake. "May I take your order, sir?" A smile twitched at the corners of her lips, but it never quite replaced the uncertainty in her eyes.  
  
"I-" A burger, he almost said but his hand went to his pocket, thumb stroking across the edge of his wallet and he was aware of every bill and coin inside. "Just, a coffee... please."  
  
She gave a slight nod, then angled away from his table with a speed that seemed unwarranted.  
  
America did the math in his head, pulling the wallet from his pocket and counting out exact change. After a moment he tapped a finger against the table and slid a couple more coins onto the pile - fifteen percent to the penny, because even if he was being frugal, that didn't mean he was going to back out on the tip.  
  
When she brought the coffee to his table and gathered up the change, he expected her to leave right away. So when she just stood there as he opened a couple of little sugar packets and dumped them into the cup, he found himself wanting to duck his head down. He bit back on the words as he stirred the drink, a slight tremble running through his fingers, but when she still did not leave, he felt compelled to say something. "I got the right amount, didn't I?" He had, he knew he had.  
  
"Oh. Um... yeah, you did." She looked down at the coins she hadn't even counted, then back up at him. The words came tumbling out a moment later. "It's just... this is going to sound crazy..." She gave a soft laugh, discomfort rather than humor, and tucked the tray under her arm. Reaching up, she twirled a couple of loose strands of hair around one finger, "I just... I don't know why. When I saw you, I just really got this feeling that I know you. It's weird."  
  
America sat there for a long few seconds as the waitress shifted from foot to foot. Of course she knew him - they all did. Whether or not they had any clue as to who - or what, rather - he really was, all of his people knew him. As he knew them.  
  
 _Alicia Dunham. Age 26, single mother. She has a daughter, Anne, age seven. Attends night school-_  
  
No. America clamped down on the information that was trying to prickle its way into his consciousness. This was no time to be focusing on that.  
  
He smiled as much as he could, wondering about the way her expression changed - an uncertain smile to mirror his own - "I'm around here and there." It was as non-committal an answer as he could give without actually lying. The waitress stared at him a moment longer before giving a small nod and backing away, holding her tray to her chest like a chastised child.  
  
As soon as she was across the room, America got up and made his way to the door. He'd never even tasted his coffee.  
  
-  
  
"I heard that plants grow better when you talk to them." The Go-Mart clerk commented, leaning forward on one elbow as he looked over the counter. America would have ignored him but since he'd already made the mistake of answering the previous day, he knew that wasn't going to work. He settled for turning his head a little and regarding the man with a slight quirk of one eyebrow. His obvious disinterest did nothing to silence the man, who was already rambling on. "I don't think that's true. I mean, I talk all the time and all these guys do is get droopier."  
  
The words were background noise, a constant hum as he gathered up his groceries. The clerk only stopped talking when America dropped his grocery basket on the counter, ringing up the items and tossing them into a bag.  
  
"It's been good talking to you, man," He called out over the counter as America left. America said nothing.  
  
-  
  
He didn't bother tossing his keys in the basket this time, kicking out of his shoes as soon as the door was locked behind him. It was still early... enough time for him to cook a proper lunch. He set the bag on the counter and pulled out the hamburger meat, reaching for a frying pan. The grill would have been better - grilled burgers were always the best - but it was outside and he was inside and he had no intention of going outside again when he'd already been there once today. His need to show he could do it was already satisfied.  
  
Halfway through the cooking, a noise echoed through the house. It took him a few heartbeats to recognize it as the doorbell. It took a few more for his heart to remember that it was supposed to be beating and not sitting like a useless lump in his chest. America's muscles tensed as he waited, the spatula clenched so tightly that his fingers started to tremble. The chime came again and he set the utensil aside, moving stiff-legged toward the door. Halfway there he thought better of it and went back to the stove. It was the mailman. Or a confused salesperson. Someone harmless. Meaningless. Someone who would get the fucking point that he wasn't home and _stop ringing his doorbell goddamn it!_  
  
After a few more rings, silence finally fell, and America let out the breath he'd been holding. He turned the meat over and squashed it flat with the spatula, ignoring the little voice of every hamburger chef throughout history that would have been utterly horrified at his treatment of the food. For once, America didn't care. There was an odd visceral satisfaction to feeling the thing squish beneath the flat metal.  
  
His hand jerked as he heard the doorknob rattle, little bits of half-cooked meat splattering across the front of his shirt. The spatula hit the floor and he slowly pulled open the nearby drawer, fumbling for a moment before managing to pull out a knife. America's eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he made his way around the corner, peering down the long hallway toward the front door while his heart tried to pound its way out past his ribcage. He wasn't really scared. It wasn't like anyone could get inside... the door was locked-  
  
There was the soft click of the tumblers shifting, one of the locks opening and America reached to his hip with his other hand, moving for a gun that wasn't there. He cursed softly as his fingers met only empty air, wondering if there was time to grab his rifle, but the last of the locks was already being undone, the doorknob was jiggling again, and this time it turned.  
  
Biting his lip, he clenched his fingers more tightly around the one weapon at his disposal. Self-defense. Someone was breaking into his house. Besides, he was the fucking _United States of America_. There wasn't a jury in the country who would ever be able to convict him. The door swung open and he was already moving - the best defense being a good offense and all.  
  
It was only his reflexive response that stilled his hand when he heard a too-familiar yelp - the sound of someone understandably terrified to find a lunatic lunging at him with a knife. "W-wait! It's just me?!" The knife hit the floor a few seconds after the bags that his unexpected visitor had been carrying did.  
  
"M...Matt?"  
  
He stepped backward, trying to calm the rapid patter of his heart through sheer force of willpower. "H-how did you-?" His voice cut off mid-question as he remembered that Canada had the key to his house. When their borders were still open, he'd given it to his brother as a sign of solidarity - kind of a 'hey, come over and hang out anytime' gesture. It had turned out more symbolic than anything, since Canada usually only came over when America remembered to invite him. He'd forgotten about that key - even when the borders had become guarded, he'd never thought to ask for it back  
  
His mind had already devised several plans for retrieving it now though; ranging from the direct _'Hey Matt, about that key-'_ , to the downright disturbing - _because he did still know how to effectively hide a body, the thirties hadn't been that far off..._ \- and even a brief bit of craziness - _Step one: steal key. Step three: profit._  
  
"I was just coming by to see if everything was okay." Canada stopped to gather up his fallen bags, his hands shaking. A couple of cans fell to the floor and rolled until they bumped into America's foot. A part of America that was still rational noticed they were cans of that Canadian Pepsi that America was so fond of and felt a little warm. Still, it did nothing to disperse the chill through the rest of his body.  
  
He wasn't sure why he was surprised... His brother had phoned him every day since that missed meeting, but never once had it occurred to America that Canada might actually come. So easy to overlook, his brother, to forget - to not anticipate... He would have to remember that.  
  
"Everything is fine." He tried to make the words light, thanked Hollywood for the ability to keep his face completely straight at that blatant lie. Smiled brightly, even though it never reached his eyes. It might have worked with another nation who didn't know him so well. It might even have worked if Canada wasn't eyeing the knife lying on the floor with the look of someone who'd just realized he was in a horror film.  
  
"This is a real knife..." Squeak.  
  
A thousand responses fluttered through his brain in an instant. _Hah, I really got you with that one, didn't I? Knife? What knife? Rash of burglaries in the area, can't be too careful... Really? Then what happened to the plastic knife from my Halloween costume? Of course it is - cuz it's **knife** to see you, get it? If you think this is scary, don't try looking in the closet._ His lips quirked in a sort of morbid amusement before he could catch himself.  
  
Canada missed the expression, or at least America hoped he did. It was also fortunate that none of the things he'd thought were what came out of his mouth, though what he actually said was hardly any better. "I was cooking."  
  
Cooking. Yes. And exactly what part of cooking could explain the 'I'm going to knife someone in the gut while screaming like a madman' moment? Culinary enthusiasm just was not the first description to come to mind.  
  
He could read the uncertainty in his brother's face. It was there in the way his fingers shivered as he picked up the knife, handling it like it was a live snake. The sight of the sharp implement in someone else's hands had cold sweat beading at the back of America's neck, and he sidestepped, putting his back to the wall of the hallway. "You're letting the cold in." _Leave. Just leave._  
  
But Canada didn't leave. Canada shuffled further into the foyer. He was that little bit of sand under America's shell, irritating the other nation's awareness with his presence. America could feel it nipping at him, prickling at his nerve endings - someone was _in his house._  
  
As soon as Canada was far enough inside, America pushed the door shut - just a little too hard. The slam made both of them jump.  
  
America locked the bolts slowly, aware of Canada's searching gaze fixed on him. If he wanted to say the right words to dismiss his brother's fears, he would have to do it soon - do it now - before the beginnings of suspicion could take root. But it was asking too much of his taxed brain when all he could think about was how he wanted Canada to leave him alone.  
  
While he was struggling to find something to say that would not simply make Canada more concerned for his well-being - and thus, make him want to stay out of some misguided sense of familial obligation - it was too late to hope or dare; his fears were already being realized.  
  
The bag hit the floor again - if there was anything remotely breakable in it, then it was liable to be a total loss by now. "You're bleeding!" If Canada was afraid of him, wary from the oddity of his behavior, his concern completely overrode that unease. His brother reached out to catch his hand, where blood was welling from a bunch of small cuts - probably the result of his panicked rummaging through the utensil drawer. America hadn't even felt it - still didn't, really, staring down at the red smears across his fingers with a blank expression. He tensed as Canada caught hold of him by the wrist, trying to pull him toward the bathroom where he kept the first aid kit.  
  
He balked for a second, then - as Canada's grip firmed, reminding him that his brother was actually really strong, even if he was a nation that rarely threw his weight around - his stubbornness shifted to something else.  
  
America yanked his arm back, met a brief resistance, then lashed out with his other hand, catching Canada hard in the upper arm. At one point it was a blow that would have been enough to fell a tree - or leave a rather large dent in a thick metal door - but it only drove Canada back with a yelp and a wince. Purplish eyes were wide as he stared at America, a sort of dull shock on his face. What he saw in his eyes was fear - _and that was right, he should be afraid. America was a still nation to be afraid of..._ \- but it also wasn't - _not that, not pity, he couldn't deal with pity._ His chest was rising and falling in short bursts and he could feel it - the moment when it really settled in with his brother. The look in Canada's eyes was a muted panic - _something is not right here_ \- and he hated Canada for a moment for taking so long to understand when they were so close. Hated him just as much for getting it, for seeing this vulnerability that should never even have been there.  
  
And then he hated himself, the emotions that should have no place digging their hooks deep in his vitals. Because how could he hate his brother? You didn't hate what you loved.  
  
 _So why did they... if it wasn't hate?_  
  
"Al-" Canada began, cautious, a tone like someone talking to a child or a wounded animal.  
  
"It's fine!" He curled his fingers against his palm to hide the red welling on his skin, "It's just a scratch." America didn't look at his brother, but out of the corner of his eye he could still see the way Canada rubbed a hand gingerly at his shoulder where he'd been struck. Even that could not have hurt as much as seeing the look on his brother's face: shock and pain and - betrayal... God, it would be like looking in a mirror and feeling that twist in his gut the first morning after...  
  
Screaming at that stranger behind the glass - so weak, how dare he be so weak?  
  
Hiding the reminders of his pain - the pictures, the knick-knacks. Everything of his once-friends and family. Years of meaning and personal value broken on the floor, wooden soldiers scattered down the stairs among the shards of a splintered box. Remorse and anger warring for supremacy inside him and only serving to make him feel physically ill...America had found dark parts of himself that day - things he'd thought long buried and forgotten.  
  
 _How could you? What gave you the right?_  
  
There was nothing he could say to Canada to make him understand the depths of his anguish and his frustration. Part of him - the small part that still struggled with his desire to be a hero, to protect what should never come to harm - didn't even want to try. "I'm sorry..." America meant it, even if he wasn't sure what exactly he was apologizing for.  
  
"It's okay." Reassuring, gentle... so much calmer than America could have been in his position. Forgiveness coming far too easily, so much that America could hardly begin to grasp it. How did you forgive someone who hurt you? America trembled at the softness of his brother's voice, feeling the vulnerability close to the surface when he'd thought he finally had some measure of control over himself. Anger he could have handled, but not this...  
  
Fingers brushed the back of his hand, a delicate touch; questioning. He swallowed, turned his palm up and felt the stickiness of the cooling blood against his skin as he uncurled his fingers. Canada had a paper towel in his hand, damp from the kitchen sink - because he didn't want to go to the bathroom and let America out of his sight - and he dabbed the red splatters away. Every tender motion was a battering ram against the walls he'd set up to protect himself but he couldn't pull away.  
  
Canada released his hand at last and America almost stumbled - legs weak. A long silence stretched out between them, America finally raising his eyes to meet his brother's gaze and seeing the worry there.  
  
"What happened?" Something else lingered behind Canada's eyes, a hardness beneath the normal silky quiet of his voice, "Who was it?"  
  
What had he done to betray the presence of a 'who' in this?  
  
His heart was pounding again - fear snaking through him, silent and inexplicable. It was different from the panic of earlier, from what had made him lash out heedless and desperate. Canada was more than worried... he was angry. That his anger wasn't aimed at America made no difference because he was remembering the few times in the past when his brother had been angry -  
  
 _His capital, burning - Canada standing above him with that wild light in his eyes, screaming at him. The only war he'd ever truly lost - that he should never have started. A scar to match the one he'd left on his twin's chest._  
  
\- it still sent shivers of fear through his body. There were also embers of humiliation flickering in him. That he - the world's hero - should evoke this sort of protective rage in his brother, the ultimate wallflower... there could be no lower point. This had to be rock bottom. "I-it was nothing."  
  
"Al..." He shuddered at that note in Canada's voice. His brother was obviously not in the mood for taking prisoners. America knew that tone. He knew to be wary of it.  
  
Canada was going to drag out all his secrets... dig them up, his shameful skeletons, and America quailed at the thought. He wanted to forget. Telling Canada would mean not being able to - might even mean eventually having to confront the ones who'd made him like this. He could understand better now, knowing firsthand, why so many rapists got away in his justice system because the victims would fail to testify. America would rather have died than be forced to stand in front of them again and call them out on what they'd done...  
  
But how could he tell his brother that?  
  
Just this once, it seemed like the universe was taking pity on him. The sound of the fire alarm cut through him, his body reacting on instinct. Fingers snatched for the handle of the pan, the smoke rising black and thick as America almost threw it into the sink. He turned on the water and watched as the smoke gave way to steam: a popping, hissing heat. It was only after the first wave of surprise had subsided that he became aware of Canada beside him, close enough to touch. He jumped a little, their shoulders bumping against each other at the move, and he felt his brother recoil.  
  
The lunch he'd been looking forward to was a charred mass in the sink, his heart racing with reaction. America turned to look at his brother, breath hitching. Such a small thing, to affect him so much. Stupid. He hadn't even been that hungry, but it felt like his world was ending. The last little straw breaking his back.  
  
Something of his desperation must have shone through, because Canada moved toward him - turned off the stove with a sharp twist as he passed, shut the water off smoothly - and America melted against his brother. The two of them stumbled down the hall, leaving the mess behind them, leaning heavily on each other.  
  
His legs almost collapsed beneath him when they got to his room, Canada's hold on him keeping him upright until he could sit on the bed. "Alfred..." A searching gaze - it made him feel naked and vulnerable again. "What's wrong? Talk to me."  
  
"Matt - I... " _Don't want to talk about it. Don't want to **think** about it._ Even letting it cross his mind was a violation of sorts - an experience that left a mark on his psyche more than on his body. He couldn't think about them without seeing their faces...  
  
Canada's fingers brushed his cheek, trailing down the curve of his jaw until they'd made their way beneath his chin, tipping his head up. He closed his eyes, chest aching. His brother's voice was still soft, but firm - steel wrapped in silk - a subtlety that America had never mastered. "Look at me."  
  
The anger was still there, banked but not extinguished, but it was secondary to the concern he saw. America breathed, quick and shaky; the scent of maple and fir, damp loam and the wide open stretches of land - similar to his own in so many ways, different in so many others. Canada's own breaths were warm on his skin, their foreheads touching as they sat there and let the rest of the world fade away around them. Gradually the rapid rise and fall of America's chest leveled out, becoming even. Panic began to loosen its grip on America's innards and when he closed his eyes again, Canada made no attempt to stop him.  
  
This was familiar too, if not immediately so. The last time he'd been like this was the days before the Revolution. His brother had been the only person he could confide in: never in words, he'd never shared his intent but he'd always known that Canada understood what he was thinking even if he'd never supported or condoned with anything more than the touch of a hand, silent reassurance. Then America had been independent and the closeness of their childhoods was nothing more than a wistful memory.  
  
Fingers running through his hair, a soft crooning that would have embarrassed him if he hadn't needed it so much.  
  
Hands tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head in a way that would have sent panic soaring through him if he hadn't been so intrinsically aware of Canada's intent. He sat there, as quiet and complacent as anyone had ever seen him - eyes still closed as he heard the rustle of fabric. Soft warmth as his brother gently pulled the fluffy sweater he'd been wearing over America's head. It was soaked in Canada's heat, in the faint, sweet scent of maple and he let his arms be guided through the sleeves without protest. America relaxed as he was nudged to stretch out on the bed, draped and wrapped in blankets.  
  
As Canada shifted to pull away America made a low noise of protest. Hesitation, then again, the sound pitching higher at the end - needy and demanding. Undeniable. His brother crept beside him, arms sliding around his shoulders. "It's okay, Al." Words, whispered against his hair, "I'm here."  
  
 _Yes,_ he thought, feeling the rightness of it. _This is how it's supposed to be._ There was a certain selfishness in him, his needs eclipsing his brother's once again, but Canada seemed willing to allow him this and he felt no remorse, just a child's sense of satisfaction - pure and uninhibited. The world was only himself and his twin, and for a moment it was just the way it had to be.  
  
And just when he'd thought it wouldn't, sleep moved in to carry him away, adrift on a vast ocean but not alone. _Finally._


	2. Chapter 2

~

Part 2

~

  
"You don't have to stay." He said when they woke, however many hours later, trying to keep the words casual. It was hard to do when he was lying in Canada's arms and wearing his brother's shirt. Both of them were aware of the pain lingering beneath his calm exterior but America didn't want to dredge it up. There were monsters swimming beneath the smooth surface, things he wasn't ready to face yet.

"I'm not going." Canada's voice was no louder than usual, but it was unmoved by America's not so subtle plea.

"I don't need a babysitter." Thrust.

"I'm your _brother_." Parry.

"Mattie..." He was pushing in earnest now, testing the walls of Canada's resolve. If he kept at it, eventually the other nation would have to get the hint. Earlier had been a lapse, nothing more. "Everything's fine now."

"No."

"Look... I promise, I'll call you if I need you..." A half-hearted bribe and a blatant lie all in one. He could feel the swell of unhappiness and anger even before his brother's gaze locked with his own. The sudden cold in those purple eyes chilled him to the core and he choked on an apology.

"Don't." The words died before he could get them out and he was aware that he'd hurt Canada, the one person who might still give a damn about him. _Had something good to your name and you just had to go and fuck it up - what kind of sick masochist are you?_ He ducked his head, snapped it back up like he'd been slapped when he heard Canada's low hiss. "Don't look away from me!" And when their eyes met, the tremble in his brother's voice matched the quiver of fear and self loathing in America's belly. "Don't you do that. Don't you dare. Keep your secrets if you must, but don't you sit there and lie to me." The quiet of his voice was more cutting than if he'd yelled the words. America wanted to cry and it had been less than ten minutes - a new record for his brother. But it was the guilt that churned in him and made him sick. He was doing it again - he was a broken thing, all sharp, jagged edges and he was hurting the one trying to help him.

 _Ungrateful._ The litany went. _Worthless. Screw-up. You just have to take something good and find a way to twist it around in all the worst possible ways, don't you? You just can't help yourself._

He wanted to curl in on himself like a wounded spider, wrapping around his pain, but he couldn't when Canada was still tangled up in his limbs. A hand petted his hair, the back of his neck, drawing his head to rest on Canada's chest. He could hear the rapid patter of his brother's heartbeat. "Alfred... god, Al, please don't do this. Just... just let me help you. Don't push me away."

America let his fingers clench in the fabric of Canada's shirt. "You shouldn't be here, Matt." He was sinking and he was going to drag his brother down with him, and Canada - _damn you, why do you even care?_ \- oh, Canada was clutching tight to him... two desperate, drowning swimmers.

"Let go." _You're not supposed to be stronger than me!_

"Hell no." Something about Canada - his sweet, quiet brother, Canada - swearing, struck him as ridiculous. America gasped out a soft laugh that was almost a sob, felt his brother stiffen at the sound before letting out a soft laugh of his own. The tension began to bleed away as they held each other - silent understanding. Terms of surrender would come later, but an agreement of sorts was already in place. Damn stubborn Canada. He was 0 for 2 now.

Time blurred a little, somewhere in there. The pricklings of hunger were his first awareness of its passage. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten since the failed late lunch of yesterday - and how long ago was that, anyway? "Mattie?" A long moment of quiet, then again, more urgent. "Matt!" His brother jerked in surprise, looked down at him. His cheeks flushed a little in pleased embarrassment at the concern in Canada's eyes. "M'hungry." A rumble, and this time it wasn't his own stomach.

"What do you have here to eat?" Canada mumbled, face red.

Aside from the obvious? "Burgers - " No wait, strike that. The meat for the burgers was doing a great imitation of hockey pucks right now. "Um..." Shit. He'd only bought enough to get through that evening and none of it had been put away. The lack had been deliberate on his part, trying to force himself to venture out by not stocking up. "-what did you bring?"

"Ice cream." Oooh... Then: "Fuck." No application of a freezer meant a waste of perfectly good ice cream. Mourning could come later though, when he wasn't hungry enough to chew on his own arm.

"Anything else?

"Pepsi." Ah, yes... "Real sugar."

"Fuckin' A!" A beat. "Food?"

"...just the ice cream. I guess... just cream now, eh?"

"Ew..." Sigh. "Tragic."

"Hm..." Gentle - almost cautious. "Out?"

He knew what his brother was asking, both in terms of their shorthand and in terms of concern over his wellbeing. It was thoughtful of Canada but considering the bareness of his larder, 'out' was the only option. .. _.as long as they didn't go far_... He was already calculating the distance in his head.

"McDonald's?" Hesitation from Canada and he compromised. "BK?"

"Tim Horton's."

"Ah! Sneaky Mattie. I'm on to you. Wendy's."

"Quiznos."

"Sonics."

"Subway."

"Health food crap! White Castle."

"Eh... not unless you're planning a bonfire and I can bring a nickel bag."

"Tsk. I'd have to arrest you."

"Diplomatic immunity, Al." Smug.

"Damn Canadians!" A mock growl.

"You're just jealous. Chinese?"

Shudder. A falter in their rhythm - wide purple eyes taking in too much. "KFC..." Then, remembering distance. "Wings?" There was a bar and grill not far.

"Yeah." A kiss was pressed to his forehead but Canada made no other attempt to either suggest or coddle. America let the gratitude lap over him for a few seconds before he sighed, shifted. It took longer than expected for the two of them to disentangle their arms and legs and he missed the warmth immediately. America made no move to change out of his borrowed sweater and Canada didn't press - snagging a coat out of his brother's closet.

They both hesitated at the front door, America pausing to close his eyes and draw a shaky breath - steeling himself. A hand brushed against his own, in invitation, and he looked to his brother, surprise and faint gratitude. A tiny smile. Fingers twined together as they stepped out into the world.

 

-

 

America could already tell his suggestion had been a bad one. The wings place was larger than the diner of the previous day, more populous. CNN droned on in the background and there was already a crowd at the bar, though it was still far too early for them to be getting plastered. He could feel their presence vibrating across his skin, a cacophony of identities that he should have been able to block out. So rare... to feel them at this level, emotions pure and unfiltered. Nothing held back.

He and Canada took a seat at the table nearest to the window, accepting their menus silently. America was aware of his brother's alertness, the way Canada was taking in every breath, every small flinch. It was nothing he could help though. His eyes slid away from the waitress' smile, a perfect little Asian girl, but fourth generation American - _and not pretty enough, not smart enough, she feels like a disappointment to her parents..._ \- still, he couldn't look at her. When she asked what he wanted to drink, he managed to indicate that just water was fine and he could feel Canada's searching gaze. He was giving himself up with everything he did.

Once she'd left the two of them alone, America let out a slow breath, his hands shaking as he raised the menu and tried to look as though he was actually reading it. He could feel something low and hot tingling at his nerve endings and he turned his head a little, toward the crowd at the bar. They had beer somehow, but they were mostly ignoring their drinks in favor of staring at the screen overhead giving the news reports.

"Fuckin' uppity British," One of them growled. "They give us a little bit of money and suddenly they think they can act like they own us." Murmurs and grumbles of assent - cans of beer scattered across the counter.

"Throw it in the harbor!" One of them hooted, a sound no truly sober person could make. "That'll show 'em! We already kicked their asses once!" Their anger licked over him, a warmth that was pleasant at first, lulling America into a sort of lethargic state.

The waitress was putting their drinks on the table, looking to each of them with an expectant smile. Canada stepped in when America seemed unlikely to respond. "I'm sorry - can you give us a couple of minutes?"

"Of course."

Another swell of raucous laughter from the bar, the sound of a glass hitting the floor and shattering. Anticipation permeated the air - heavy. America took a deep breath and felt it filling him - the intoxicating buzz of strong human emotion, barely leashed potential. It drove away the sick scared feeling inside him.

A soft female voice asking the men to please control themselves...

It all snapped. There was nothing rational to it anymore - a jumbled swell of emotions. The sound was muted beneath the electric surge of... _hurt. rage_ ... America felt it jump from them to him, taking on the flavor of his fear, his pain. A completed circuit. Shouting, their words barely audible, but he knew the xenophobic paranoia too well.

_All of it put behind him - the concentration camps. Parts of himself that were alien. Hurting them was hurting himself because they were his people - not Japan's... his - and yet, still he did. Howling, hoarse and animal - 'This is not me! **You** are **not** me!' All lies._

Someone was screaming, crying - broken, like America himself - and he sat so still in his seat, his entire body vibrating with eagerness. His tongue flicked across his lips. The scent of blood on the air and the crowd was nothing more than a pack of rabid animals tied to his anger and his need.

A hand on his arm, his brother's voice shouting his name. Unimportant. Then Canada hit him - not a punch, but a sharp slap across the face - and the world snapped back into focus.

"Stop it, goddamn you! She's just a girl!"

He looked up into Canada's eyes, trembling in the aftermath of that vicious, emotional high and felt sick at what he saw there. Already the men were dispersing, someone calling out for an ambulance. Their emotions were clouded with confusion and uncertainty. They weren't even entirely sure why they'd done it. But America knew...

"Alfred!" His brother's voice, low and urgent, compelling him to look. A sharp gasp as he jerked to his feet, shoving Canada backward. The air was closing in around him, thick with blood and sweat and the sour remnants of anger. America did the only thing he could think of.

He ran.

Out the door, with no rational thought of where he was going. Not back to the house - his one safe place. It never occurred to him and it wasn't deserved anyway. America ran like there was something chasing him.

And when exhaustion and weakness finally drove him to his knees, dry heaves sending aches through his body, he was forced to admit that it was useless.

No matter how far or fast he went, there was no escaping himself.

-

He wasn't sure how long he was crouched there, his forehead pressed to the cool metal of a nearby pole. Time lost its grip on him and he was grateful for that - glad to not have to speak, to think. For just a little while, he felt nothing, was nothing, and it was a relief. So much better than being himself.

It couldn't last forever.

"So. It's you."

America struggled to force his eyes open, turning his head just enough to look at the owner of the voice. It was an old woman, sitting on the bench near the bus stop sign that America was clinging to for dear life. She was scattering crumbs on the ground, her eyes never really going to him at all. For a moment he was convinced that he'd either imagined her talking to him or just misconstrued. Maybe she was just talking to the pigeons -

"Get up from there. You're getting that pretty sweater of yours all dusty." He couldn't help the smile that quirked at the corners of his mouth at hearing it referred to as 'pretty'. Canada would have been so flustered, even if it really was kind of a girly looking fashion statement... America pushed himself to his feet, cursing the weakness in his legs as he stumbled. He flopped down on the bench beside the woman, blessedly numb at the moment. His eyes were on the pigeons, pecking greedily at the crumbs on the ground. There was something rhythmic to their movements, almost hypnotic. He was so caught up in looking at them that he missed when the woman started to talk again - her voice droning on in the background until he heard his name.

"What?" Surprise and a moment of stabbing alarm. Though he was familiar to all of his people, there were few who had any clue about his existence - even the ones that were told invariably forgot unless they spent a lot of time in his presence. His secrets protected themselves.

But no... "My Harold loved America," The woman said again, and for the first time, America really saw her, the red and white stripes draped across her lap. There were those in his government who would have condemned this desecration of the flag, but America knew better. _All she has left of him - loved so much... a boy gone off to war, never to return_. "I never understood it... how he could feel so much for something that felt nothing back. Nobody remembers my Harold anymore..."

'You're wrong,' he wanted to say to her. 'I remember him. I remember all of their faces and I always will.' But the words would not come. The two of them sat there, silent, shoulder to shoulder. She scattered the last of her crumbs but made no move to stand up.

"What war was it?" She asked him and he looked at her, not understanding. "What put that look in your eyes? So tired, my dear... like I am. You're too young to have such old eyes."

 _If you only knew._ But America smiled in a moment of wry humor. "Maybe I'm not as young as you think."

"Nor as old as you feel, I'd wager." The woman got to her feet, drawing the folded flag around her shoulders like a shawl. "Go home, young man. I'm sure you've got someone waiting for you."

America sat there quietly as she left, staring down at the birds who weren't bothered in the slightest by his presence. Footsteps on the pavement... the pigeons scattered in a flurry of feathers. He raised his eyes to see his brother standing there in front of him, still wearing his coat. A slight breeze ruffled their hair as they looked at each other - a pair of children lost in the woods, searching for a trail of breadcrumbs.

Canada held out a hand to him, palm up, and he ignored it; surging from the bench to wrap his arms around his brother, burying his face against Canada's neck. Clinging like he would never let go... Arms came up around him, wrapped him up protectively.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, not sure what he was apologizing for when there were so many regrets...

"Don't be sorry." And there was something in his brother's tone that completed the sentence, wordlessly. _But **someone** will be sorry. I promise you that._ "Let's go home." America nodded against his chest and the two of them walked together - never letting go, even though it took them twice as long to get there, stumbling over each other's feet the entire way.

-

 

The plants were gone when America walked into the Go-Mart the next day. His brother waited outside, though America was certain the only reason he'd managed to persuade Canada not to come in was because he'd said it would take just a minute. It could be difficult to work with someone who didn't fall for the puppy eyes... it meant coming up with a new tactic. America noticed the absence immediately, hesitating at the change as he came up where they would have been. There were a few box-loads of cheap cleaning supplies, and America stared at the foliage free shelves for a few seconds longer than he should have before gathering his things together. As he laid them down on the counter, the cashier looked up from his book.

The man gave him a grin. "Well, if it isn't my friend with the green thumb!" He picked up a package of hamburger buns and dragged it across the scanner. "We missed you yesterday." America made a non-committal noise as he started bagging his own groceries. He counted out the bills - recounted them - then slid them across to the man and waited for his change.

Halfway to the door he heard the cashier calling out to him, "Hey, Green! You forgot something!"

His hand went to his wallet first but, when he turned, the man behind the counter was holding out a pot with a familiar looking droopy plant. America stared. "I really can't spend money on that..." Too frivolous. His spending was already under enough scrutiny; he didn't want any excuse for the others to feel more need to 'help' his economy.... again. Yet he could hardly explain these things to a normal human.

"It was supposed to go in the trash." The clerk shrugged. "So I figured, 'what the hell', right? Look, just take the damn thing, okay? And for god's sake man, smile a little. Watching you mope around here like you lost favorite pet... I dunno... it's kind of a downer."

It never occurred to him to doubt the man's sincerity. He could already feel it, radiating clean and bright; a warm buzz on his skin. America took the pot, holding it close to his chest as he exited the store. Canada didn't ask him about it, just smiling and taking the grocery bags as the two of them made their way back up the street.

-

Time passed, he wasn't sure how much. The days blended - one into the next - a comforting routine. His brother's presence was a soothing balm, days spent simply hanging out together. Nights curled together on the bed - Canada had a guest room set up for him, but never got to use it, not with America coming by every night to try and climb in with him anyway. The unpleasant dreams were starting to get less immediate, less real. America could almost believe the things he remembered were nothing more than a vivid nightmare.

America uncurled, reaching out and finding empty space where Canada should have been. With a sigh, he reached for his glasses, slipping them on and blinking fuzzily at the clock. It was almost noon. He eased out from under the covers and into the bathroom, locking the door behind him before stepping into the shower. He didn't come out until the water shifted from pleasantly warm to icy, forcing him to leap out from under the spray with a sharp yelp. America was shivering as he toweled off, dressing himself quickly. He pulled Canada's sweater over his head - the same one, the one that Canada was not going to be getting back. His brother only got to put it on when it was fresh from the laundry - wearing it until America would come up to him and tug on it, demanding. It was his lifeline. The only securer warmth was to be wrapped up in Canada's arms.

He passed by the room in the house that served as his office, hesitated. Passed by it again. Went inside. There were papers stacked on his desk. America winced as he saw the financial reports, slipping them into the top desk drawer for the time being. The rest were internal matters - things he'd been neglecting for... well, for however long it had been. A small stack of mail sat neatly centered atop his keyboard and he picked it up with one hand, turning the paper shredder on with the other. It was juvenile, maybe, but he'd always enjoyed shredding documents.

A bill - set aside. At one point he would have shredded it anyway, just because, and he felt a pang of unhappiness at this small inconvenience. Bills weren't supposed to come to him anyway... Junk mail. Junk mail. A postcard from Bangladesh. Charities asking for money. The newest catalog from ThinkGeek - put aside, he wanted to keep that one - and one from The Pampered Chef that was shredder bound, unless they had some new electric knife or something. A plain white envelope with the name Alfred F. Jones typed on it. His fingers twitched a little at that, but he set it aside and began shredding the rest of the pile.

Once the stack had been reduced to confetti, America stared at the envelope sitting on his desk, his expression carefully blank. He scanned it again, eyes narrowing slightly. That was his name in the return address. A letter from him - that he'd never sent. A letter to himself.

America darted a glance at the open door - the scent of cooking food wafting through the air as his brother busied about in the kitchen. Canada had taken up most of the slack in cooking, though America wasn't entirely sure if it was because his brother thought his food was terrible, or because Canada was afraid to leave him unsupervised with so many sharp objects in reach. Either way, if it wasn't for the fact that Canada refused to eat just burgers - something America was absolutely fine with - and insisted on cooking.... other stuff... the arrangement would have been ideal. Either way, he assured himself that Canada was too preoccupied at the moment to notice this particular oddity.

He turned the envelope over in his hands, noticing the small sticker across the flap and pausing. It was nothing spectacular, just a thumb-sized image of a white rabbit.

His hands shook a little as he opened it, already knowing who it was from - if not himself. America wanted to throw it away immediately, on that basis alone. Only one thing stayed his hand.

-

A memory - the two of them watching movies together. America with arms full of popcorn and candy, soda clutched in one hand and the remote in the other, somehow managing to drop nothing. Japan, already sitting on the couch with legs drawn up beneath him and neatly tucked into place. If America hadn't known better, he would have thought the other nation completely disinterested, except that he could catch the faint shift from Japan every now and then - a slight tilt of the head that betrayed a sense of intrigue.

Afterward, America had enthused - as always - bubbling over with excitement at the sheer awesomeness of his movies.

"So, what would you do if you could go back in time?" He asked Japan, thinking of cool things: fighting dinosaurs or knights, relieving his wild years on the open plains when he'd still ridden mustangs bareback beneath the summer sun.

"I think the point of that movie was not to go back in time, America-san. Or you risk creating a potentially dangerous paradox that alters the fabric of reality."

Huff. "C'mon Kiku, it all turned out fine in the end. I mean, his life sucked before, so Marty improved it by going back in time and changing things around a little bit. Sometimes history needs fixing, that's all there is to it!"

"And I suppose you know what you'd do if you could go back in time?" Curious.

"Of course." America was smug. "I've had plans for that for decades, just in case I ever built a working time machine." And at the strange look Japan was giving him, he hastened to clarify, "You can't be too prepared, right? I mean, what if a future me came back from a future where killer robots are trying to wipe out humanity - _**in the future**_ ," Emphasis there, because the future was just _so damn cool_ , "-and of course, needed my help because I'm the hero."

Japan was silent a long moment before speaking. "May I make a couple of observations, America-san?"

"Observe away!" He crowed cheerfully. "And for god's sake, I've already told you... Alfred, Kiku. Call me Alfred. We're friends now, aren't we?"

"Alfred." Obediently. "First, I feel compelled to point out the slight redundancy of your statement, as the future you is clearly from the future."

"Oh, come off it, Kiku. If I wanted someone to lecture me on proper English, I'd watch a movie with Arthur." Which wasn't going to happen because England liked those 'talky' movies that bored America half to death. And chick flicks. England hadn't ever said anything, but America had always figured him for a chick flick kind of guy.

"Second," He continued, unperturbed by the outburst. "If it's you in the future, wouldn't you still be 'the hero'? Or has you from the future somehow become weak and helpless?"

 _Erk... !_ America didn't like to think of himself somehow becoming weak and helpless, not even if it meant he could be totally cool and badass now by rescuing his slightly-less-heroic-but-still-the-world's-hero future self. "W-well, maybe it's not the future me who comes back. After all, he would be so busy trying to rescue everyone. He might send someone else, because kicking robot ass would be so much faster with two heroes." He so needed to make this a movie... he was going to get on that right away.

"Third," Japan said, interrupting America's fantasy of fighting killer robots alongside future him - who had an eyepatch and a scar because that was just awesome looking - with the rest of his observations. "If it was a future with technology advanced enough to create robots who can look like humans, how will you be certain the future you who showed up is actually you and not a cleverly designed duplicate programmed to lead you into a trap - thus eliminating the one hope for the future?"

"That is a good point," America replied smoothly. "But I already have a contingency plan in case that ever happens."

"You do?" He could tell he'd surprised Japan. Japan's not-expression was definitely surprise.

"Of course! I just made it up!"

A slight quirk at the corners of Japan's lips. "May I ask what it is?"

America's eyes narrowed as he regarded Japan for a long moment of silent scrutiny. He was thinking about him and future him. They might have had good use for someone with Japan's skills while battling killer robots from the future. He smiled, then he leaned in a little to whisper in the other nation's ear -

-

  
This wasn't the scenario for that particular bit of code. There weren't even any robots involved, much less killer ones from the future... but it surprised him still. He remembered. And it was the only reason he didn't immediately throw it in the trash, the reason he pulled out the little card inside with the picture of the cat on it. When he opened it, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. A long moment passed, his fingers trembling as he finally reached down to pick up the note.

'America-san,' It began, in Japan's neat, precise handwriting. 'I know this is not a situation with killer robots or android future versions of ourselves, but we never really came up with a closer scenario and I wanted to be sure this got to you.' As if they could have dreamed this up, all those long nights ago, watching movies and playing video games together. This had never come up. Maybe it should have... he'd had a contingency plan for everything else.

'In sending you this, I'm doing what I should not, but my conscience will not allow me to do otherwise.' Should not? According to who? Again, America wondered why. Why, Japan? 'Your absence from the meetings has become noticeable, of late. I think it may become dangerous if it continues. I know I am not one to suggest anything to you now, but as someone who has been your friend, I felt the need to warn you. The others of the G8 are granting some leeway because of the circumstances, but the world can not deal with a prolonged disappearance from a major world power.

'As strange as it may sound, given all that has occurred, I fear for you in this.

'America' His name written, crossed off, 'Alfred - You helped me out of my isolationism. You gave me your hand, and your help after the war when you had no reason to. You have been my friend, as I hope I have been yours. So please believe my sincerity when I tell you that this is important. I know you are a strong nation - the others must be assured of this as well. There will come a time soon when you will have to stand on the stage again. Do whatever you must to make yourself ready for that time.' A smear on the paper - ink, like it had been hastily folded.

'This is all the advice I can give you, I'm afraid. I won't abuse this agreement of ours any longer, but I do want to let you know that I will be waiting - and hoping - for any further communications you might wish to make. Whether I feel it's deserved a second time or not, I do still hope for forgiveness. That's something you taught me. I thank you for that.' An unintelligible word, scribbled out, then a small drawing of a cat and the word 'Neko', in signature.

The paper fluttered to the desk. America pushing to his feet and eyeing it like it was a poisonous snake. There was a tightness to his chest that might have been pain, or anger. Both seemed like appropriate responses. Snatching up the note again, along with the envelope and the card, America moved to drop them into the shredder - caught sight of that signature, the ink smear...

He tucked the letter into the drawer instead. Closed it. Locked it. Resolved to forget about it. Stared at it for a long time, until Canada's voice broke into his thoughts, calling him to eat.

And when Canada asked him what was wrong, he managed to smile and lie with a straight face, "I just got bored trying to do work." His brother seemed to find nothing amiss about his words, but they sat in a heavy lump in his belly, just like the food that America hadn't even tasted. The first crack in their secure little bubble.

  
-

Three weeks.

Just two simple words, but with such import. America didn't want to think about them and what they meant. They loomed in front of him; first at a distance, but creeping steadily closer. So far away, but then present, immediate. Armageddon.

They'd already agreed, without the need for speech, that America would not be attending this world conference. Even without that, he wouldn't have gone. It wasn't his absence at the meeting that weighed on his mind - so much better to never have to face them again, so much simpler - but Canada's absence from here.

Three weeks. It might as well have been forever. He lay quiet on the morning of, pressed tight against his brothers side like he could somehow fuse the two of them together if only he could get close enough, and listening to the thudding of his own heart. Canada's fingers carded through his hair, moving in soothing sweeps. The both of them had been sleepless all night, trying to stave off the dawn. Their last night.

A kiss on his forehead as Canada finally slid from beneath the blankets, then the slow, silent torment of watching his brother prepare to leave.

The two of them didn't speak during the entire time Canada was getting dressed, though the words they didn't say hung in the air between them - heavy and cloying. And when there was nothing else to do, when it couldn't be avoided any longer, Canada was the first to broach the subject, both cautious and calculating. "They'll be asking about you." They had avoided talking about this - about mentioning anyone. America, because he'd been afraid of giving his brother more to work with than he already had. Canada because... well, because America didn't want to discuss it. He'd never thought about it before... just how much Canada was there for him; how much he took his quieter sibling for granted.

America closed his eyes, not wanting to think about any of it. Not wanting to think about any of them. "I know."

"Should I call you? The world does need to know your stand on these policies..." Canada was still being gentle, but there was a firmness to his tone now too. He obviously needed some answer that America wasn't entirely certain he could give.

They needed to know what he thought, huh? He just bet they did. His opinion mattered so much to them. Because what he'd felt had been so important when they'd had him helpless: tied down, spread open. America let out a shuddering breath. "You can give it to them then, Mattie."

"Huh?" Canada stared at him, uncomprehending, and even without looking he could feel his brother's gaze on him, willing him to make sense. "What am I supposed to say if I don't check with you?"

 _I really don't give a fuck, Mattie. I don't._ "Whatever you decide, I'll go along with it." Purple eyes were wide with shock - not believing what he'd just said. There was a deep rooted part of himself that didn't believe it either, that bristled in protest at the very idea. Someone else making his decisions for him: it was everything he'd fought so hard to escape back when he'd been under... England. He bit his lip. No one else. He could never have said those words to anyone but his brother, who'd already seen him at his worst. " _I trust you, Matt_."

So many things flashed through his brother's eyes at that - fear, unhappiness, pride, sorrow, fear again - above it all. Canada shifted to sit beside him on the bed. His voice was tight but steady. "Al..." Hands cupped his cheeks, eyes briefly meeting. "When I get back... we'll talk about this." A kiss on his brow, the cool weight of a cell phone pressed into his palm. "If you need anything - anything - call me and I'll be on the first plane back."

"I will, Mattie." Glib.

"Promise." Not a question, a command.

"...I promise."

Canada bit his lip but he didn't call America out on the lie. Slowly he eased to his feet, catching hold of the coat draped across the edge of the bed - not just any coat, but that coat. He slipped it on, took a couple of breaths. Gradually his trembling stilled, shoulders squared. There was a look of dark promise in his normally soft eyes and America felt a sense of something almost like deja vu, looking at the number across his brother's back getting further and further away.

When the door closed; when he could no longer hear his brother's footsteps, America dragged the blanket up over his head, hugged a pillow to his chest and was briefly grateful that Canada wasn't there to see him cry.

-

The day after Canada left, America went on like things were normal. He'd done okay for himself before his brother had practically moved in - or that was the mantra he kept repeating silently in his head. He could do this. It was three weeks. America broke it down into days. Twenty-one days. He could handle things for twenty-one days.

Five hundred and four hours.

Thirty-thousand, two hundred and forty minutes.

One million, eight hundred and fourteen thousand, four hundred seconds.

An eternity...

The first day he got up. Watered his plant. Went out as he and Canada had become accustomed to doing. Stopped by the diner from sheer force of habit. Stopped by the Go-Mart for supplies.

The waitress smiled uncertainly at him as she took his order, asked if everything was okay - and hadn't he shown up with someone else before, she couldn't recall.

"How's your plant doing, man?" The Go-Mart clerk commented while bagging his groceries. "I hope you really do have a green thumb or something, cuz I just got in a whole truckload of the suckers for Memorial Day. There's no way we're going to sell them all." America's eyes widened a little, but he turned his head away and made a noncommittal noise as he gathered up his bags.

The second day, he didn't stop at the diner at all, only at the convenience store. He ignored the clerk's chatter, the new row of flowers and little flags, ducking his head as he made his way home.

The third day, America bought supplies in bulk, shooting the cashier a cold look when the man asked if he was planning on having a party.

The fourth day, he didn't leave the house at all. There was no reason to. Like a wounded animal going to ground to nurse its injuries, he curled up beneath the blanket and waited. For his brother to return, for the stores of food to run out, for... for something. He waited for the world to change, or to end, though there seemed little hope for either.

A fifth day passed. A sixth.

Seven days gone and what he'd waited for finally happened. On the morning of the seventh day, America found a dying bird on his doorstep and the world tottered on its axis - hesitated for a moment, suspended in place - then fell soundlessly into a different rotation.

Life moving on... Again.

-


	3. Chapter 3

  
Bealtaine

  
Book 2: Vola

 

~

  
America struggled out from beneath the blankets, steps faltering as he made his way to the door of his room. He fumbled with the lock a few times before managing to slide the bolt free. His feet took him to the kitchen on instinct alone, though once he was there, staring down at his bowl of soggy Fruit Loops, his appetite failed him. America dumped the entire mass in the sink and watched it wash down in a swirl of pink milk and colored chunks.

He paced the length of the house, checking the locks. Front door. Back door. Side entrance. Spare rooms. Windows. When all were done, he retreated to his room, bolting the door behind him and climbing back into the bed. Canada's scent was disappearing from the blankets, though he hadn't washed them for just that reason. The sweater still had the faint air of maple, but it too was fading, leaving America increasingly lost and desperate.

He wanted Canada. He _needed_ Canada.

But Canada was not here.

America turned beneath the blankets, unable to find a comfortable position. Sleep was impossible - his only refuge denied him - and at last he gave up the ghost and he shuffled downstairs to curl up in front of the television. Never anything to watch on Sunday mornings... he wasn't sure why he bothered. The drone of the sound, turned down low, was almost hypnotic and although he didn't care what was playing, he watched mindlessly anyway, staring his way through the screen.

At first he thought the sound was coming from the speakers - a low, pervasive squall that would not have been out of place on a nature program. It was when it became a high yowling that he recognized it. Cats. Fighting cats. Or maybe fucking cats, the damn things were great about finding human habitation when they wanted to get some. America turned up the volume.

It didn't work. The sound was penetrating, drilling a hole right through his head, and after a couple more minutes of this, his endurance and patience both snapped. He had a look of cold determination in his eyes and a gun at his hip as he yanked the front door open. "Get out of here you mangy-" Words cut off as the two perpetrators in question froze. Their backs were arched in alarm but they clung tenaciously to the bird they were fighting over. A slight flutter, the quick rise and fall of feathered sides and America felt his world drop out from under him. Fingers caught at one of the cat's scruffs, free hand going for the other who went with the better part of valor and scrambled away with a hiss.

America had to wrest the sparrow from the larger animal's jaws, his wrist and hand covered with stinging scratches from his efforts, and when it was done, and the cat was slinking back across his lawn, he could feel the warm, shuddering weight in his palm.

And it was just a bird... in all of the country there were millions of birds... they died every day on the roads and in the forests. But not this bird. There was a small sense of satisfaction in him at this rescue, a different feeling than he'd had of late. It was like finding a part of himself that he'd been missing. He didn't notice the blood welling across his skin as he shut the door, cradling the twitching bundle of feathers against him like it was the most precious thing in the world. And why shouldn't it be? Maybe it was. The world was different now...

He fumbled around for a shoebox, yanking a hand towel from the closet while somehow managing to not drop anything. A bag of cotton swabs. America made a little nest - the towel in a box, a small hollow for the shocky animal. He could feel each quick rise and fall of its chest reverberating through his body, his focus narrowing further until he was aware of the rapid patter of its heart, of every pinion and pinfeather. For just a moment, he was the bird, but still himself as well, gently examining the mess of one wing; murmuring nothing words in what he hoped was a soothing tone.

Splinting the injured limb so very carefully - the bird lying mostly still under his ministrations - America could sense its panic, but it didn't react to him the way it would have to a normal human. Animals tended to be more closely attuned to what he was - less conscious of what he looked like and less likely to be fooled by it. He dabbed away specks of blood, bandaged as best he could, surprised by how steady his hands were. And when he'd done all he could do, he sat quietly at the table.

Waited.

The tips of his finger brushed across the feathered back, feeling the vibrations of life in it - so fragile. Death crept in beneath each shuddering breath and he could feel that too. His own will bent to a single thought - _Live. Live, damn you_ \- so focused that his awareness of the rest of the world was almost severed. There was a need in him that he couldn't understand, like this one small life was the last number in his ledger - to be tallied up, for good or for ill. And if he just thought hard enough, if he just _wanted_ it enough, he could bend the law of nature to his will and this bird would live.

Because what kind of a hero could he be if he couldn't save even this one tiny creature of his?

America breathed, unaware of his own body, he was so subsumed in the expansion of his senses. Heartbeat drumming - was it his own or the bird's? He wasn't sure. One more beat, one more breath; and what was life anyway, but the endless struggle to keep going just a little longer?

_Keep walking till your legs won't carry you anymore... sit down. Lie down. And at the end, you know it's the end and it's okay because you're just so damn tired..._

But not him. Not them. Die in war, bled out, clawing and screaming to the last bitter breath, or give it up and fade away - lands and people becoming yours no longer. Their blessing and their curse: virtual immortality. To be surrounded by death and never truly know it.

_Maybe,_ he thought, a wild thought, _if you live long enough, it's what you want. You learned all you could, did all you could, left your mark on the world for better or for worse and there's only this left - just this one last mystery to delve into._

He felt it happen - between one second and the next. So close was he, so aligned, that he felt everything stop for a moment. A thread severed. An eternity dragged through limbo before his own body remembered it was alive and willed his heart to start beating again.

His fingers trembled, drawn tight against his palms, but he had no other outward reaction at first. He pushed to his feet, motions stiff, walked around the table, walked back, deliberately looking at nothing. He picked up the lid of the box, set it on the table. Once the slight shaking of his hands had eased, America fixed up the box, lined with the towel and soft cotton. Gently he folded the sparrow's wings, arranged the small body into some semblance of a peaceful position. Closed the lid.

Sat there for a long time, staring off at some point beyond the far wall...

Gathering the closed box to his chest, America padded silently to the door, still barefoot and clad in his pajamas. For once he didn't seem to notice - or care - that he was leaving the door open, crossing through the damp grass and ignoring the cold of the dew soaking into the cuff of his pants.

It was the same place, every time. America had mostly given up on having pets over the years - moving away from the easy rapport he'd shared with his animal friends back in the days before England had come. He could still feel them, of course, but distantly, the same way he felt the trees and plants and the deep of the earth beneath his feet. It wasn't the same. And still it was his tradition - every animal he'd loved buried beneath the spreading branches of the same massive oak. Even having had the bird for less than a day, he could have done no differently.

  
On he went, seeking with bare toes and his nation's awareness to find the best spot. Still numb, blessedly. No shovel, but his fingers would do... might even be better for this purpose - more personal, somehow. Laid to rest - himself to himself.

Faltered, feeling something off, and looked up from the wet clover surrounding his ankles. A form against the trunk of the oak, curled among the roots, and it took America a moment to realize what it was he was seeing. His muscles seized, holding him in place when he felt the welling urge to run.

The person raised their head, weary golden-brown eyes blinking in his direction. "Ve..." So soft it was barely audible... quieter than the sound of the box falling from his limp fingers and hitting the grass, tumbling open to spill its precious cargo at Italy's feet.

  
America was torn between the urge to scoop up both bird and box - as though Italy might try to take them... like they could have any meaning to anyone but him - and the equally pressing need to retreat. Beneath it all was the grating knowledge that pervaded every cell of his body: someone was on his soil. Foreign. He couldn't reach out and sense Italy the way he could his own citizens. The other nation was a blank, empty spot where some part of America should have been.

And he'd been there on _that_ day.

While America was doing his beset to reconcile all these conflicting elements, the source of his turmoil was gathering up the spill. The dead bird cupped in Italy's wrapped up palms, held out to him like a gift - or an offering.

_How dare he?!_

Confusion finally untangling in a hot blur, America struck the other nation's hands aside, the bird tumbling to the wet grass between them.

His hand caught at Italy's collar, fingertips brushing against cold metal as he fisted the fabric tightly in his grasp. Three weeks ago this would have been difficult - if not impossible - but Italy was light in his grip now, body thudding back against the bark with a soundless gasp. Held in place, pinned between America and the tree - two unyielding opposites - Italy hung limp. His eyes were half-open as he met America's gaze, the slightest tilt to his head, almost quizzical. Somehow that look spurred anger more than words or threats would have. It felt good to be angry - so much better than being afraid.

He didn't try to fight it back as he would have with Canada - he damn well had the right to this, you didn't do this to America and get away with it - letting the heat drive away the fear in his veins. Italy was here, and he was helpless and that sound in America's ears was the rush of his own blood.

America's free hand curled into a fist - and there was no need to fight fair when they hadn't, or so the logic went - caught the other nation sharp in the gut. A choked noise, but no other sound. Again, and still silent. Italy still hanging limp in his grasp. Did he even feel it? Was America so weak that he couldn't even get a reaction from the nation that cried for mercy when someone even looked at him too ferociously? Why would he not cry now?

A haze crept across his vision, frustration mounting, and Italy wasn't just Italy anymore, he was everything wrong with America. Everything they'd done to him distilled down to this pitiful effigy of his rage and pain. His blows were wilder now - not trying for any sort of reason or rhyme except for the need to bring forth some reaction instead of this damning silence. Something. Anything.

Something sticky on his hands and he wasn't sure if it was his own blood or Italy's. Maybe both, his knuckles were throbbing like they'd been torn, and still Italy was quiet. America might as well have been slamming his fist against the tree itself. Finally - finally - he heard a sound like sobbing, and it took him a few seconds to realize it wasn't coming from Italy.

It was coming from himself.

He let the other nation slide from his grip, form falling limp to the ground as America took a few staggering steps backward. The scent of blood was on the air again, the hoarse rasp of someone breathing, and this time there was no satisfaction, only bile rising at the back of his throat. And he ran, back to the house and the safety it offered, barely conscious of moving. He locked all the doors. Checked the locks. Locked all the windows. Checked the locks again. Holed himself up in his room, burrowing out a nest beneath the blankets. Tried to pretend everything was okay.

None of it did any good. His awareness of Italy's presence thrummed across his nerve endings - far stronger than Canada's had before. The place where Italy was... it was like a blank spot in himself - somewhere he couldn't feel, a numb place - and it was a different kind of violation. Unable to rid himself of the knowledge, or to ignore it, America ripped the covers from the bed and paced the halls, silent and anxious, like an angry cat.

The day crept by, hours marked only by the wall clock that America refused to look at. Outside he could sense the dropping pressure and, with it, the first shudders of hot and cold pervading his body. Another storm raging through him and the chill of the arctic frost already on the air. When his legs turned weak, unwilling to deal with carrying him any longer, America sank down onto the couch. The dimming sky outside draped the interior of the house in dark and he didn't bother turning on the lights. The first hints of thunder rumbled through him - flashes of light bathing the room in cold brilliance. The patter of rain drummed against the windows.

America reached out again, even though he knew what he would find. Italy was still there. And as the storm began to rage in earnest, he felt something else creeping past the anxiety and the frustration. It was an echo of something familiar but distant. It drove him to his feet again, back to that stalking, his limbs trembling with his internal struggle. Lightning illuminated the room around him, then thunder so loud it was like the end of the world, making the glass rattle in its panes.

Fingers trembling as they drew the bolts, still barefoot and in his pajamas as he threw the door open. A spray of bitter cold rain struck him in the face, the force of it stinging his skin. Water soaked into the thin fabric as he sprinted across the front lawn, blonde hair plastered to his body. He couldn't see past the blur of wetness on his glasses, but he didn't need to. He knew where to go - it was kind of like closing his eyes and trying to touch his nose... he didn't need to see to do it.

And there he was... that form still huddled beneath his oak. America reached out, ungentle, grabbing hold of Italy by the back of his collar and not lifting so much as dragging him back across the grass, wondering about his own sanity and why the hell he was doing this.

_Because heroes don't leave people outside in thunderstorms_. A little voice in his head tried to point out and America gave a bark of sardonic laughter. _Yeah right._

They came into the house in a gush of water, but at least the foyer was already wet, the hardwood floor gathering huge puddles that went in far enough that they were seeping into the carpets. He dropped Italy on the floor, keeping half an eye on the other nation as he locked the door again. Grabbed Italy again, ignoring the dripping trail they were leaving behind as he hauled the other nation up the stairs in a series of muffled thuds. Tore open a guest bedroom. Flung Italy inside as much as he could. Slammed the door shut. Locked it. Checked the lock.

Leaned against the door, panting and shaking and trying to imagine his reaction was just because of the cold. Water beaded at the end of every strand of his blonde hair, tracing down the curve of his jaw and dripping from his chin. He struggled to keep his feet and not hyperventilate as he went back toward his own room - down the stairs and at the distant end of the house but still, far too close now. His eyes were drawn to the floor where his carpets were probably ruined, a tight feeling in his chest at the trail of partially diluted smears that were too dark to be just water.

America crept into his room, shut the door and locked it. Braced a chair beneath the handle, just in case. He shut himself up in the bathroom, stripped down, rinsed off without bothering to turn the water in the shower away from cold. Fished another pair of pajamas out of the dresser... then he curled up beneath the blankets again, knees drawn close to his chest and reducing his focus to the simple act of breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

He huddled in the dark, counting every breath and hoping for the dawn to be lurking just beyond the horizon. Morning would come - it had to come. But why... why would it not come just a little faster?

-

He didn't immediately check on Italy - doing his best to ignore the other nation's presence entirely - but his feet kept leading him down that hallway, past the closed door. Again and again he came back to it... haunted. Every time he paused long enough to close his eyes, it was there, the image of it burned into the backs of his eyelids. Finally, after several circuits of the house, America went back to the kitchen. He pulled out a bowl, tipped a random amount of dry cereal into it, then crept back toward the guest room, his heart pounding in his chest. He approached the door, wary. His fingers twitched at every slight noise, shaking a little as he unlocked the bolt. He pushed the door open, just a fraction and shoved the bowl inside along the floor, almost knocking it over in his haste. As soon as it was far enough inside to be out of the way, he yanked the door shut again, locking it.

America retreated back to his room, bolting the door behind himself and settling on the bed, staring toward the window - expression blank.

A few hours later - he couldn't be sure how many - he repeated it, but this time with a messily cooked burger. As he shoved the plate in, it clanked against the bowl already sitting there, causing the soft patter of cereal pieces tipping all over the floor. America hesitated, clenched his hands for a moment in a swell of frustration. So Italy wasn't even going to eat the things he brought? Fine! He gave the plate an angry push, spilling the contents of both plate and bowl across the rug. Then he yanked the door shut so hard that the slam made him flinch.

He went back to pacing, his thoughts scattered. Focus wouldn't come, no matter how he tried... Why was he doing this? It was crazy? And for that matter, why the hell was Italy here anyway?

That thought froze him mid-step. Why was Italy here?

There was a world conference right now... as a member of the G8, Italy should have been there... Did they notice Italy was gone? How could they not? What about Romano? Didn't he know his brother wasn't there? Would he know Italy had been hurt? What if he came here and demanded to know where his brother was?

The complete lack of sound from the guest room had a more sinister import now - as the thought skittered across America's mind and made his blood run cold. What if Italy was so quiet because he was dead? What would Romano do to him if his brother was dead? America tried to imagine how he would feel if someone killed Canada - what he would do - and he felt soaring panic and rage at the very thought.

_Shit. shitshitshit..._

His feet almost slipped as he tore back down the hall, nearly yanking the door from its hinges in his haste. The spilled food was still there, untouched, but he could see no sign of anything - or anyone - else. The door to the guest bathroom swung halfway open, the light off, and America felt a different sort of fear. But a familiar one... This was how his heart always pounded during scary movies.

Was Italy here? What if he had gotten out somehow? Or could he have been hiding, perhaps, waiting for America to enter before attacking him...

Swallowing, America mustered his courage and crept forward slowly, jumping as his foot bumped the bowl on the floor and scattered the last of the cereal. He peered around the room, squinting in the dimness before the thought occurred to him that he should _turn on the light_. He backed warily toward the door, fumbling around behind himself for the switch. The light snapped on, so dazzling brilliant for a moment that he was almost blinded. This time he had to squint to see past the brightness of the fluorescents, making his way toward the bathroom again. The door creaked a little, shifting on its hinges, and America froze in place, suddenly wishing he'd thought to grab a gun.

Italy was in the bathroom then... he had to be. Once he was close enough, America reached out and gave the door a swift push, sliding it completely open. The bathroom was empty. America felt his panic beginning to soar anew - whirling around to take in the room again. This time, his eyes caught the trail on the floor - rusty brown stains that it took him a moment to identify. Smears and splatters led his gaze to the corner - to the little hollow between the bed and the dresser. The coverlet had been dragged from the bed and was now in a huddle on the floor.

America neared, unease mounting as he reached out one hand, painfully slow - fingers grasping at the fabric. A pause, to catch his breath and gather his wits, then he yanked it back.

The missing nation was curled beneath it, trembling as he was exposed to the outside air. The sleeves of Italy's jacket were daubed in red, not completely dry yet. Both Italy's clothes and the coverlet were damp with rain and blood. The scent of it was heavy on the air and America felt his bile rising against the back of his throat, fighting back the urge to retch. Despite this, America felt a wash of relief. He lowered his head and let out a shaking breath, then bit at his lip, a resolute cast coming over his features.

One hand reached out, snagging Italy by the back of the collar and hauling him up again. The move wrung a soft whimper from the smaller nation, but America ignored it, dragging Italy into the bathing room. He turned the water on with a sharp flick of his wrist - icy at first, but heating rapidly. Steam started to fill the air as he switched the flow from the tub to the shower. As America struggled to maneuver Italy into the shower, he felt the sting of the scalding hot water on his skin. Italy squealed at the heat - high and piercing - beginning to thrash in his grip for the first time.

America's grasp was unrelenting as he held Italy under the spray, half in the water himself. He ignored the way the heat was burning his hands and wrists - soaking into the fabric of his shirt - his gaze focused on the water swirling away down the drain. It ran red for... he didn't know how long, there was no time here... fading to pink, then eventually - _finally_ \- going clear. He caught hold of the knob with trembling fingers and shut the water off, pulling the soggy, dripping nation from the shower and shoving a towel into Italy's hands. "Dry off," He growled, keeping his voice low to hide the shake in it as he unceremoniously dropped Italy on the floor and left the room. He was careful not to look in the direction of the still open bathroom door as he rummaged in the guest room dresser for some clothing. It was all pretty old, which gave him a good idea of the last time this room had been in regular use.

He dug out a large, floppy shirt and a pair of pants that was probably far too big for Italy's skinny frame. "Here." He held them out without ever actually turning his head to look at Italy. There was a long pause, nothing happening, then at last he darted a glance.

Italy was still sitting in the same position he'd been dropped in, the towel draped across his knees. America's frustration was beginning to mount anew, lingering on the verge of becoming actual anger, then Italy shifted and his eyes were drawn to something he hadn't really noticed before. Italy's hands were swathed in bandages, no sign of skin showing. The edges went up beneath the cuffs of his jacket sleeves - the damp material starting to seep red again. A spike of... _something_... went through America's gut at that.

The action didn't even register in his brain as he darted out a hand, grabbing hold of Italy's sleeve and yanking it up roughly. The bandages went up past Italy's wrists, arms wrapped almost to the elbow. Fresh patches of scarlet were already soaking through the fabric in multiple places.

_What...?_

America released his grip, reaching out instinctively with his awareness and finding only a blank. Of course... Italy was not one of his - something that America had almost forgotten for a moment. Whatever injury was causing it, whatever pain the other nation was in, America found himself standing outside of it - viewing with a stranger's eyes. He looked down at the folded clothing he was still holding in one hand; at Italy, half curled around himself, and for the first time America stood torn between two equal and opposite reactions, both warring for dominance in him.

_Why should you even care?_ His inner voice demanded. _What has Italy ever done for you? He's been your enemy more often than not._

_But not for a long time... not for decades now..._

_He wouldn't help you if your positions were reversed. You know it. You know it because the one time he could have, he didn't._

The memory of Italy's trembling, half-naked form atop him, the dampness of tears seeping into his shirt as the other nation sobbed against his chest...

_He doesn't deserve your pity._

And then... quieter.... _But who are you to judge who deserves saving? When was it decided that heroes should only help the people who were worthy of it?_

_You're not a hero. Why should you care what anyone else thinks?_

America's chest felt tight, air not coming to his lungs - choked off somewhere in his throat. There was a spreading haze across his vision and he could feel his own pain and anger, his frustration and shame, rolling beneath the surface... and if Italy had said anything - anything - at the moment, it would have been over just like that... his last tenuous thread to sanity stretched precariously thin.

But Italy didn't speak. Italy raised his head and looked up at America from beneath damp, chestnut colored strands of hair, and the desolate look in those golden eyes froze the blood in America's veins - the heat of anger giving way to a deeper cold and making him shiver. He could have ended Italy right here, right now, and they both knew it.

And Italy didn't care. How could he not care? Even in the midst of his darkest moments, America had never felt something like what he was seeing in Italy's eyes now. It shone there for a moment longer before giving way to something else - a look that was almost expectant, a longing that he wasn't sure he understood.

America lowered his head with a helpless little laugh. "What?!" He demanded, not looking at that pathetic face. "What the fuck do you want from me?!" His breath came hard, ragged pants, hands clenching into fists. "I can't save you. I can't even save myself!"

A hand brushed against his sleeve, jolting him from his hysteria, and he looked down at Italy again, shivering. Italy didn't say anything, just making a soft noise that might have been 've' before dropping his hands to the floor again, pushing at it like he was trying to stand. Failing. A moment later, Italy gave up that effort and crawled instead, moving toward the pile of blankets, his dark little corner... He dragged himself toward it with the mindless determination of a dying animal looking for some place to breathe its last, and he left fresh streaks of red in his wake.

Fingers curled against America's palms as he watched this sad display for a moment longer, then he let out a slow breath, dropping the clothing on the floor and backing toward the bedroom exit. He stumbled a moment, almost tripping over the plate still on the floor, stumbling out to the hallway and bolting the door before making a beeline for the stairs.

Inwardly, his thoughts were a repeating mantra of 'this is a bad idea', but it was easy enough to ignore if he focused on the mundanity of the actions themselves. The things he'd pulled out the previous day were still sitting on the table, forgotten after the stresses of the evening, and he gathered them up. He tried to wipe his mind blank as he carried everything upstairs, ignoring the unease and the fear trying to make him rethink what he was doing. A roll of bandages dropped from his grasp as he struggled to unlock the door. It rolled back toward the stairs, bouncing down the steps.

-

Italy was curled up in the coverlet when he stepped back inside; the shallow rise and fall of his sides, the only indication of life. America took a deep breath, steeling himself. It wasn't the first time he'd treated injuries before, he thought. After all, he'd found himself doing triage sooner or later in every war he'd been in. Even before that, he'd sometimes helped wounded animals or his own native people. He tried to tell himself this would be no different. _Lies. All lies._

The cuffs of Italy's jacket were a hindrance - it was ruined anyway, so America caught hold of the fabric and ripped the sleeves off along the seams as smoothly as he could manage. Italy ducked his head, burying his face against the coverlet as America took hold of one arm - touch gone gentle from long instinct rather than any special desire to treat the other nation well. Slowly he unwound the bandages already around one arm. As they came off, layer by layer, they were more saturated - the copper scent of blood on the air becoming heavier and cloying.

At last, the wraps fell away to expose the injuries to his view. They were nothing like he might have thought to see. Along the length of Italy's arms from elbows to wrists, the skin was rubbed raw, torn in places in odd parallel grooves. He'd been expecting... well... the work of a knife, maybe, but this... was obviously not. It took a few moments of seriously wracking both his own brain and the collective memories of everyone in a ten mile radius before he could come up with something plausible. Rope burns. These injuries were similar to the ones someone might obtain while trying to break free from bindings.

Although some of the deeper gashes were seeping blood, it was Italy's hand that caught his unwavering attention. Fingers were splayed slightly open, allowing America a view of his palm, where an angry red wound was centered, partially scabbed over. When he reached out to catch hold of Italy's wrist and draw the injury more clearly into his view, his fingers brushed across the back of the other nation's palm.

America almost flinched at the sensation, clamping down on both his unease and his squeamishness. A cursory inspection confirmed the first thought to have flitted across his mind when he saw the shape of the injury.

It was a puncture wound, not a cut. Something had gone through Italy's hand with enough force to tear completely through to the other side. For the first time, it crossed America's mind that this wasn't an injury he could treat... There were a lot of bones in the human hand - he shuddered thinking of how many, all the hand injuries he'd felt vicariously in his life - and was it even possible to get a hurt like this without breaking some of them? America's brows furrowed. "I..." He cleared his throat, giving his head a shake. "I think you need to go to a hospital..."

The reaction was immediate - a soft but piercing squeal and Italy trying to burrow into the blankets to get away from him. So strange, to not feel the panic himself in reaction...

_Great..._ America sensed the hospital route was out. Looking down at his pile of items, he gave a shuddering sigh, getting back to his feet and rapidly exiting the room again - shutting the door but in too much haste to actually lock it as he dashed down the hall to fetch the rest of his first aid items - and a few others. He came back with the first aid kit and a box of sewing supplies, shifting them precariously to one hand as he wrested the door open again.

Italy's unintelligible sounds were actually words now. Or 'word' rather - just one, repeated over and over again. "No. No no no no..."

"No hospital, I get it." America gritted out, dropping to his knees, pulling out the ointment. It wasn't meant for deep wounds, but it would have to do. He slathered it across Italy's arm from elbow to wrist, thanking his good fortune that at least the stuff didn't sting. His hands were quick, more steady than he would have expected as he began to apply a layer of gauze to some of the deeper gashes before winding bandages around the injured limb. His work was oddly precise, finished quickly and leaving America with the more tricky wound left.

Normally he would have had boiled water to purify the materials but Italy was a nation and they weren't prone to most of the same kinds of infections as their humans. And actually boiling the water would have taken more time and drawn this out - giving America's nerve an opportunity to dissolve. This was already hard enough...

He doused the sewing needle with alcohol, at least, shaking it off as he pulled out a spool. America threaded the needle with a precision that should not have been possible when he was quivering so hard. But it was like all the shaking was on the inside - his hands were steady as he took the needle to Italy's torn skin. First the back of the hand, then the palm, and where he'd expected the other nation to put up a tremendous fight, Italy only lay there among the blankets panting, low and animal. It was the sort of reaction one of his own creatures would have had, and it made his work easier to imagine that was the case. If he gave himself the opportunity to think about who Italy was and what he'd done...

America had no idea if his jury-rigging would even hold as he applied more gauze, more bandages, winding them carefully around Italy's fingers before moving to the other hand. This time he wasn't surprised to find the injuries beneath the sodden wraps - or that they echoed the ones he'd already taken care of. He daubed away the blood as he worked, caught in a blessedly single-minded focus. The world was reduced to the motions, the act of fixing and healing as best he could. With his own people, he would have helped further, reaching out to them to lend them some measure of his own strength and complete the loop he shared with them, but when he tried to do so - damn instinct - he met only that blank emptiness. If he hadn't been finishing up already, it might have jarred him enough to make him unable to complete his task.

Trying to force the burgeoning realization to the back of his mind again - unsuccessfully - America pulled the scissors out of the sewing kit, snipping carefully across the shoulders of Italy's jacket until he could tug it off. The shirt beneath was much flimsier, came away much easier, and he studiously didn't look at Italy's bare upper half as he patted him down with the towel in hurried motions. Snagging the shirt he'd dropped earlier, he tugged it down over Italy's head, motions gentling as he pulled the injured arms through the sleeves. The length of the shirt was a relief - coming halfway down Italy's thighs and effectively covering him as America fumbled around, yanked off the boots and damp trousers.

Italy lay still throughout, though America could sense the other nation's eyes on him, wide and staring. That, in itself, was a sight he rarely saw... how oddly open and childish that face seemed when the other nation didn't have his eyes shut, or mostly shut, at least.

Thank god for being almost done... he wasn't sure he could take having to do this for much longer. America slid arms beneath shoulders and legs, picking Italy up. He had to stop himself from swinging the other nation over his shoulder in a fireman's carry - the bed wasn't that far. It was only after the fact that it occurred to him to be surprised he could even lift Italy with such ease - though he wasn't sure if it was a sign of his own strength returning or of Italy's diminished state. He settled the other nation on the bed. eyed him warily before going to the closet and pulling out the spare blankets, tucking them around the prone figure.

He looked at the mess on the floor, gathering up the blood-soaked towel, the discarded bandages and the coverlet and dragging them back out the door. Almost - almost! - he went straight down the stairs, but he caught himself in time, pulling the guest room door shut and locking it with shaking fingers. The entire load dragged out - not to be thrown in the wash, but in the trash. With that done, America retreated to his own room, locked the door. Went into the bathroom and locked that door too. Then he crept into the shower, not bothering to remove his own clothes, and he stood there under the spray until the water ran cold, shaking and struggling to just breathe.

-

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a short chapter. Initially I was going to combine it with the beginning of the next chapter, but considering the major difference in both tone and content, I thought it best to break this off and go ahead and have it be a little shorter than the rest.

  
Bealtaine

  
Book 2: Vola

 

 

  
~

  
When America finally got up the energy to drag himself out of the shower and get changed, he made his way back down to the kitchen. He stared at the hamburgers he'd already made, sitting on the counter - sloppy, unappetizing things. When he took a plate of them and sat at the table, he just couldn't muster the enthusiasm to actually eat them. So he put ketchup on them. When they still didn't look any more appealing he added barbecue sauce. And mustard. Mayo. Pickles. Olives. That was about the point where he got really desperate because the rest of the things he dumped on the burger made no sense whatsoever to any sort of sane person. Teriyaki sauce, salsa, cream cheese, even jelly. And when he'd emptied most of the contents of the refrigerator door into the mess, it looked a bit like someone had taken a hamburger and vomited a rainbow all over it.

He threw it in the trash.

Then, for the first time in days, he warily approached the front door, tugged his coat from the coat-rack - not that he needed it, it was a little unseasonably cold, but not enough for him to worry about outerwear - and headed out.

Habit brought him to the Go-Mart first and he hesitated outside before giving a slight shrug and stepping in. He froze as the person behind the counter looked up, a redheaded teenager he didn't recognize. The boy didn't greet him at all, just favoring him with a long stare that made him duck his head and dart behind the nearest row of items. He grabbed a few random things from the snack aisle before making his way across the store, trying to keep out of the new person's view. He was aware that this was probably making him look even more suspicious, but his jangled nerves didn't allow him to care too much on that count.

America had to go to the front to pay though, even though he was loitering and trying to avoid doing so for as long as possible. He hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fingers, before mustering together enough initiative to actually grab a random box of dry pasta from the shelf as he made his way toward the front, moving like a man headed for the gallows.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as the cashier started to ring him up, gritting his teeth at the clumsy way the teenager was pawing at his groceries. But it was when the redhead swiped the same item four times and America saw the numbers go up on his receipt, that he finally lost patience.

"You're going to take the rest of those off, right?" He half asked, half-demanded, thinking of his billfold. If he wasn't in the mood to spend money of frivolities, he sure as hell wasn't going to fork over any extra for items he hadn't even gotten. The new cashier struggled with the machine, only managing to make it beep in protest. The item was scanned again, making America's eyebrow twitch.

After a few more tries that had America quivering with the barely suppressed urge to throttle the idiot, the teenager picked up the phone and rang the manager. More time wasted.

_Great... just great..._

"What seems to be the problem, Curtis? Is Nora giving you fits agai-" The voice cut off for a second, a tiny lapse, and America turned in surprise. "If it isn't my friend with the green thumb! Where have you been, man? I was beginning to think you'd fallen off the face of the earth!"

America just blinked, his anger forgotten as bewilderment flitted across his features. "Uh..."

His lack of speech didn't seem to bother the man, who was chatting up a streak. "So, where have you been? Ah, see you noticed the new digs, huh? Guess who's manager now? C'mon guess! ...Okay, I guess you don't need to guess. Hey, Curtis, move over will ya, kid?" The... no, not clerk... manager now... cleared the sale, then began to ring up the items himself, never missing a beat.

"So, get this, remember that day you came in and bought all the stuff for your party - by the way how was it? Wish I'd gotten an invite. Well, the owner comes in and he says to me: 'Nate', he says, 'I've had my eye on you, my boy, and I've noticed you have a way with people. ' Me! Can you believe it? Anyway, he says, 'You're just the sort of person we need around here.' And then he gave me a promotion. And a raise. And I have you to thank for it, my fine friend."

"H-how's that?" America stared, unaccustomed to being so thrown off-guard.

"You're our best customer! And-" The man gave him a speculative, sideways look, "I dunno, call me superstitious, but I think you're just lucky. My own personal good-luck charm, I guess. I was getting worried when you were a no-show for so long!"

He finished ringing everything up, bagging America's groceries before stepping out from behind the cash register. "Not to sound weird, man, but... geez, this is just great, I mean. Hey, it's about time for my lunch break, so you wanna go out and get something? It'll be my treat!" He hastened to add the last, "I mean, I've got my first paycheck with manager's salary coming in this week, so why not?"

"Uh..." America stared, not certain what to say in a situation like this.

"C'mon," The manager grinned, "Don't tell me you'd turn down a free lunch! 'sides," he added, almost slyly, "You seriously need to smile more, man. You always look so down. We can even pick up some ice cream or something."

"Ice cream!" America found himself perking up at those words, despite his otherwise down mood.

"Yeah, man, there's this new place - Cold Stone, or something - and they're just... awesome." Oh yes... America well knew the awesome of Cold Stone ice cream...

Besides, what could it hurt? It wasn't like he was particularly eager to get back to the house and his unwanted house guest - that thought in-itself was odd, normally he couldn't wait to get back home... "Okay, I guess..."

"Great!" A comradely arm slung around his shoulders made him freeze in place. "Just leave the bags here, man. No need to lug them all over the place. Hey Curtis, keep an eye on these, huh? I'll be back in a while, so don't burn down the shop while I'm gone." A pause. "And for heaven's sake, if you see Nora again, remember that she only likes paper. Not plastic. Never plastic. Trust me on this one, if you want to stay sane, you'd better catch on to that soon."

The manager herded the still-bewildered nation toward the door. "Oh yeah, the name's Nathan, by the way. Nate, to my friends and... well, I guess everyone else too, so just call me Nate, okay, Green?"

"Please don't call me that." They stepped out the door to the Go-Mart and America found himself instinctively heading toward the diner. Nate didn't seem fazed by this, just following along.

"Alright, man, I get it. So what should I call you then?"

"My name is-" America, he thought, then gave a little shudder and a shake of his head, "Alfred. Alfred Jones."

"Pleased to meet'cha, Mr. 'Alfred Jones'." The man repeated in a formal tone that America recognized as a bit of teasing mockery. "So, uh, Al... where are we going anyway?"

"There's this little place down the street..."

"Say no more! Just lead on, Maestro!" Nate gave a bright, infectious laugh making America roll his eyes a little and - despite everything - a smile curled at the edges of his lips.

-

The diner was mostly empty when they arrived, a fact that weirded America out until he got a glimpse at the clock and realized it was actually well past lunch time. His companion patted him on the shoulder, "Hey, can you grab us a table? I gotta duck out and wash my hands real quick." America nodded, though he wasn't sure the man saw it before darting off, and migrated to the booth he usually shared with Canada. The waitress who approached was the same one as usual, which was a comforting bit of familiarity in an otherwise crazy world.

She perked up when she saw him. "Oh, it's you! It's good to see you back. We were getting a little worried." She gave him a smile and America could feel the relief lapping at him, warm and soft. He could have wrapped himself up in it. "Do you know what you'll be having today?"

America gave her a slight smile, "I haven't picked yet. I'm waiting on someone."

She gave a tilt of her head, "Your friend you usually sit with? I can't seem to remember much about him..." For the first time, this bothered America - really bothered him. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he hadn't forgotten who Canada was for weeks now, even while he'd been away... and somehow nothing about this fact struck him as odd, even if it was. "His name is Matt." He found himself leaping to Canada's defense, "And he's my brother, not my friend." _And you will remember him._ The waitress hesitated and America was aware that he was battering the poor woman with the force of his will, that he could make her remember Canada... if he pressed hard enough, she would never be able to forget. He could do that...

Temptation was averted as Nate approached the table, breaking America's concentration. As the man drew close, America could sense him falter, and with his awareness as open as it was, he knew the moment the two humans' made their first contact. Both of them froze, eyes narrowing as they stared at each other over the top of America's head.

It was familiar... this moment. It was something he'd seen before. They were both radiating a concern toward him that could easily shift to outright possessiveness. That might have been amusing, but for the secondary effect that both humans would shift from being neutral - a rare state, being neutral, most humans seemed inclined to either like or hate someone without any prior prodding - to being at odds. And while it was always flattering - having someone willing to fight over you - discomfort overrode any warmth he might have gotten from that though. Because goddamn it all... did people really need more reasons to hate each other? What was wrong with them? A whole damn world, full of people - and nations - hurting each other over the most trivial things. He thought of Italy under the tree, the sense of sick satisfaction he'd felt at hitting the other nation, and he wondered what it the hell was wrong with him.

He'd never felt like that before... not the urge to hurt someone just because he could. Heroes were supposed to save people...

"H-hey, Al, are you okay, man?"

"Sir? Is everything alright?"

Something had changed, he could tell. They were both regarding him with a concern that was warming in its own way, shifting away from that earlier neutral state and assuming a tentative peace as they fretted over him.

"Hey, miss, can you get my friend some water or something?" A hand brushed his arm, "You okay? You looked like you were going to pass out for a moment there."

After a second, it occurred to America that the man was expecting an answer. "I'm sorry. I've just... I was sick for a while. I guess I'm still... getting over it." Yeah... right.

"Geez, man... sorry. I guess maybe lunch wasn't the best idea. Maybe I should take you back to your house so you can relax and take it easy or something - it sucks to come down with stuff..."

Back to the house... back to what - who - was at the house. America shuddered. "No. I'm fine." It was a little cowardly maybe, but he just wasn't ready to face Italy yet.

A glass of water was placed on the table in front of him, and he shot the waitress a grateful smile. She dipped her head in acknowledgement. "So... uh, can I get you guys anything else?"

"I don't know about my friend here, but a coffee would be awesome." A pause. "Maybe two. Eh, could you just bring the whole pitcher, I guess." Nate laughed at the look the waitress was giving him, "What can I say, I'm useless without my caffeine." As she wandered off, the man sank into the seat across from America. "So, come here often?" When America gave him a long stare, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, stupid question. C'mon man, work with me here. And smile! You keep up that sad face and you're gonna make someone cry - and I hate it when I cry!" A mock sniffle and America give a shake of his head, amused despite himself.

"You're a very strange man, Nate."

"Am I? Oh good. Because when I was a kid and they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, that's exactly what I told them. I said, 'Mom, I want to be a very strange man when I'm older.' and she said, 'Well, you're already a strange boy, so I think you're on the right track!'" America laughed softly as he opened the menu, looking at their selection of burgers. He ignored the satisfaction that was radiating from the man across the table. "I amused you. I think that's progress."

America snorted, looking at the waitress. "Can I get a swiss burger and a side of some better company, please?"

"Oooh... 'compared to an appetizer' burn! It must be love!"

This time the waitress laughed too.

-

America peered through the glass, scrutinizing the many tubs of ice cream with a keen eye. Beside him, Nate had his arms crossed and was watching with an expression that was somewhere between amusement and unease. America chose to ignore both of these, addressing the server. "Can I try the mint again?" A low grumbling rose up among the people in line, but they fell silent as soon as America's eyes flitted over them.

"You've already tried mint four times, Al," His companion pointed out, deadpan. "And everything else, at least that many."

"I'm sure I only tried mint three times." America muttered before straightening up again. "I'd like to get a Mint Mint Chocolate Chocolate Chip."

"Good choice!" The girl behind the counter said, displaying what might have been some genuine enthusiasm.

As they watched her mixing the ice cream, Nate straightened up and added under his breath, "Yeah, a good choice to keep us from getting mobbed by angry customers." He stared back over his shoulder at the huge line of disgruntled people. America glanced over at them too, his ice cream now firmly in hand, then gave a slight shrug.

"Better hurry up and order then."

"...?!" A strange look shot his way, not quite a glare, then: "I'll take the Coffee Lovers Only, please."

A minute later they were back on the street and migrating roughly in the direction of the Go-Mart. America ate his ice cream slowly, taking the moment to savor it. He'd gone without for a while - it was so cost ineffective that it was hard to justify buying - and the rich sweetness bursting across his taste buds was something he hadn't realized he'd missed so much. He was so absorbed in his nibbling that he missed the curb and stumbled, the ice cream tipping out of his hand. America snatched for it immediately, pure reflex and missed, the edge of the cup bouncing off of his fingertips. His happy little treat landed on the ground with a splat.

America froze mid-step, the spoon still sticking out from his mouth as he blinked down at it with a lost expression. Damn it all... He was on the verge of lapsing into misery when a cup of ice cream was shoved in front of his face. Immediately he turned to stare, eyes wide. Nate gave the cup an expectant little shake and America snatched it in an eye blink. He had a spoonful in his mouth before it even registered that the man was giving him a quizzical look. America instantly cradled the cup close to his chest, giving his companion a stare that said clearly 'You gave it to me, you're not getting it back.'

"You're welcome."

He swallowed hard, feeling embarrassment creep over him. "Thanks."

"No sweat man, I think you need it more than I do." Nate gave a dismissive wave of the hand then darted a gaze toward the mess on the ground. "Guess someone had better clean that up, huh?" A pause, and when America didn't speak, still absorbed in eating, a sigh. "I guess that would be me, huh?" He dropped to one knee and picked up the cup, using it to scoop up as much of the spilled ice cream as possible. The words were quiet, but from the teasing tone still obviously meant for America to hear, "Whatever makes you happy, princess."

Alfred stiffened a little at those words, felt his hackles rise, then shot a glare down at the kneeling man.

There was a soft splat, something cold striking Nate across the back of the neck, but when he jerked his head up to look suspiciously at America, the nation was obviously deeply engrossed in enjoying his dessert. When he ducked down again, there was another splat, this time hitting him directly in the back of the head.

The blonde was so absorbed in his feigned innocence - and of course, the ice cream - that he only sensed his danger when the other man straightened up, just a couple of seconds before the Mint Mint Chocolate Chocolate Chip concoction splattered across his cheek.

Okay. Any sane person had to know that throwing ice cream was a declaration of war. It was just common sense.

America scooped up more of the coffee flavored ice cream with his spoon and flung it back, narrowly missing the kneeling man. Unfortunately for him, Nate was quick on the draw and America found himself with another helping of the mint, this time across the chin. It quickly dissolved into a flurry of flying sweets, and by the time they ran out of steam, they'd already run out of ammo.

"Well... that was a waste of perfectly good Cold Stone's..." Nate grumbled - trying to wipe the Coffee Lovers Only splatters from his cheek and only managing to smear them further. Alfred ignored him, scooping up what little ice cream was left in the cup with his fingers and licking them clean, unrepentant. "I look like I got into a fight with a postal ice cream man...all I need now is a truck playing 'pop goes the weasel'."

A snort of laughter escaped America at that particular bit of nonsense, surprising both himself and the human. He quickly moved to toss the empty cup in the trash. The two of them walked back to the Go-Mart in silence, garnering some very strange looks from the new clerk as they stepped inside. Nate pointed him toward the bathrooms and America cleaned himself up as best as he could manage before peeking back out again, moving back toward the check out counter to pick up his groceries.

He was halfway to the door with them when he heard footsteps behind him - turned to see the manager moving toward him at a quick trot, holding not one, but two flower pots. As he skidded to a stop just inside the door, there was an awkward pause - as it seemed for once, the chatterbox had nothing witty to say. Finally he settled for: "I wasn't sure if you were more a roses or a lilies kind of guy so... uh... I saved one of each." Both pots had little flags sticking out from them, leftovers from Memorial Day. America stared at them for a long moment before reaching out to try and take them, juggling his bags to hang precariously from one hand. "Oh... crap, yeah..." Nate muttered. "Sorry, forgot you had all that." Another pause then a weak offer. "You don't live far, huh? I could just carry them for you, save you a trip."

America thought of home, aware of his exact distance from it, and now that the sugar high was wearing down, he was both eager to retreat and wary of what he knew would be waiting for him there. He let out his breath in a sigh. "Yeah, I guess..."

The walk back was torture - every step reminding America of the reason he'd spent as much of the day away from his former safe place as possible Finally, standing in front of his house, he became aware of his companion's awe - it was radiating off the man in waves. "You really live here?!" Then, quieter, but just as skeptical, "-and you shop at the Go-Mart?"

A slight, self-depreciating shrug. "I like the Go-Mart." It had the virtue of being the closest place that sold groceries too, but America didn't feel the need to mention that fact.

"I guess you do." Nate shuffled a little as America fiddled with the front door, the locks tumbling open. He didn't open it though, just setting his groceries down and looking at the store manager expectantly. A long moment of silence, then the man passed him both pots - first the rose, then the lily. America had one tucked in the crook of each arm and still he waited for the other man to take the hint and leave.

Nate gave a laugh, but America could sense his unease - it was a mirror of what he was feeling himself right now. He seriously doubted the human understood why he felt that way - was caught off-guard when the man still managed to address him again, tone going for teasing but coming across flat and awkward. "So... uh... Dinner, dessert, a walk and flowers. I think you're supposed to give me a kiss now, right?"

It was the wrong thing to say - joking or not - and they both knew it immediately. America's mind was drawn back to another kiss and he barely managed to keep any hints of that pain hidden, throwing up a sudden, aloof cold. Nathan backpedaled right away, like a whipped dog, his distress and unhappiness dancing across America's nerve endings - so wrong that he almost felt nauseated. As much hurt as he was in right now, he felt a need to at least try to soothe. "Nate-" He called out after the man, saw the expression take on a hint of confusion. America struggled to push his own roiling emotions beneath the surface, willing a sense of ease toward the human as much as he could. It will be okay. "Thanks for hanging out." His words were short, clipped, but in as calm a tone as he could manage. "It was fun." Everything will be fine.

"Y-yeah man. Anytime." And if America hadn't succeeded at completely reassuring the human, at least when Nate turned back at the end of his walkway he was able to muster a smile for America. It was a lot more than the nation could manage at the moment.

He waited until the human was completely out of sight before turning back to the door, sighing, pushing it open with one hand. Ducking inside, arms laden with bags. Shut. Locked. Safe... The monsters couldn't get to him here. But as much as he repeated this comforting mantra, America had a sneaking suspicion that he was wrong.

The monsters were already inside, weren't they?

-

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

~

The house was silent as he entered, but this was nothing extraordinary. Without the people there was no need for the noise, no source of laughter. He made barely any sound himself, slipping out of his shoes before taking his two new plants and lining them up neatly beside the geranium already on the windowsill. The lily was a wilted white thing, the roses - teacup tiny - starting to crinkle and brown at the edges. America glanced over them once more before retrieving his bags from the foyer, putting the groceries away with painstaking slowness.

He froze a little as he fished out the box of pasta, turning it over in his hands, a lump sitting at the back of his throat and making it difficult to draw breath. He set the box aside, turned on the water and began to wash dishes. Nothing more than a mindless repetition, a mechanical act that wouldn't require him to think or feel anything, and it was completed too quickly to be of any comfort. America picked out a pot, watching the water on the glistening metal as he filled it, set it on the stove.

America had made pasta before, of course. It was hard to really ruin if you were even a little bit attentive. There wasn't any proper pasta sauce - chalk that one up to poor planning, but he hadn't expected this either... Plain pasta would be fine. It was enough that he was feeding the bastard, wasn't it?

Cooked. Drained. The steam blistering his fingers as he tipped the pasta onto the plate. Then up he went, up the stairs to the locked room. Opened the door. This time though, this time he was prepared. The revolver was a comforting weight at his hip as he pushed the door open, plate balanced in one hand. It was still a mess inside, smelling thickly of blood and the food already spilled on the floor. Where there should have been a lump, a figure still curled among the blankets, the bed was flat - save for a few bunched up covers. The contents of the first aid kid were scattered across the floor, mingled together with the things from the sewing box, turned on its side.

He almost dropped the plate, barely managed to set it down with shaking fingers as a second discovery came on the heels of this first. The bathroom door was shut. America scanned the floor again, more attentively this time, and noted the absence of one important item.

Italy had the scissors. Just the thought sent cold shivers up America's spine, and inwardly he cursed himself for not bothering to remove the potentially deadly implements. Sharp metal, ye gods... In his weakened state, could Italy have enough strength to use them to attack? If so, why had he not ambushed America directly at the door? And if he was nowhere else - logic cut in - why would he be in the bathroom? Not the best place for an ambush... but Italy had never proven himself particularly adept at setting traps, either.

The second possibility came to him more slowly, the browning stains on the floor bringing to mind the look on the other nation's face.

Maybe Italy wasn't planning to kill him. Maybe Italy was planning to kill himself...

It was a thought that seemed obvious in hindsight, and while his first reaction was 'good riddance', his second was to remember his earlier fears about Romano showing up on his doorstep in some kind of righteous fury. America strode up to the bathroom door, pounding his fist on it. A long moment of quiet, then he heard it, mostly because he was straining to catch the smallest noise.

"Ve..."

America yanked the door open, hand on his gun, and stopped midway through the motion of drawing it. Italy was there, all right, half curled on the floor. When America flicked the bathroom switch, light gleamed on the metal of the scissors that were still dangling from his fingers. The other hand was clutched to his chest, resting atop the cross he was still wearing. America could see no blood other than the drying stains, but that was not his first focus either. He dropped to one knee, snatching the scissors out of Italy's limp hand. There was no resistance as he did so, Italy's head turning slowly until he was blinking up at America, eyes hazy.

"Goddamn you..." America hissed, tone laced with anger and the remnants of fear, "What are you up to?" He reached out, intending to haul Italy back to the bed - though part of him was still wondering why; why was he bothering... this was stupid, was he really this much of a masochist, to put himself through this.. - and something slipped from the hand Italy had clutched to his chest, fluttering to the floor. It took a moment of staring dumbly down at the tiles before he recognized what it was. A single strand of hair - that distinctive curl.

His eyes darted to Italy - who seemed somehow... smaller without the familiar ahoge. He reached up a hand to flick a fingertip across Nantucket, giving a small, internal shudder at the thought of having it cut off somehow when just having it yanked on was bad enough. "Fuck." A sigh, then, "Fine. Whatever." Maybe it didn't hurt Italy to chop off his ahoge the way it would have hurt America - or maybe America was just too tired to give a shit about Italy's little 'hair cut'.

He hoisted Italy, shuddering at the warm weight of the other nation's body pressed against him as he carried Italy back to the bed. Hands were clumsy as he tucked the blankets around the smaller form.

It occurred to him, a bit belated, that this wasn't going to work if Italy was supposed to be eating - which was the point of this whole endeavor, wasn't it? America impatiently jammed a few more pillows behind Italy's back, propping him up, then reached for the plate.

At first, his intent was to shove it into Italy's hands and just leave. He was discovering the two fundamental flaws in this, however. Firstly, that unless he expected Italy to eat with his fingers, he was going to have to also leave the fork - and after the scare with the scissors, he was not eager to leave anything even remotely sharp within the other nation's reach - and second... Italy's bandaged hands rested against the coverlet, a stark reminder of the injuries he'd attended to only a few hours before. Doubtful... that Italy would even be able to hold a fork if America had given him one.

America's insides twisted; guts pulled into knots that tightened with every passing moment. 'Fuck you-' he thought, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he regarded Italy. The other nation barely seemed aware of him or the danger crackling in the air, just turning his head to rub his cheek against the pillow with a soft, miserable little noise. Italy seemed less human with every moment that passed, and while the anger started to bleed away, it was replaced with a strange mixture of disgust and... pity? Italy wasn't Italy. Italy was one of those stupid dogs with a cone on its head to keep it from chewing on itself. America swallowed, let out a slow breath and willed the tremors of fear and rage to subside.

 _Be quick,_ he told himself. _Just get it over with quickly and it'll be done with. Don't think about how you'll have to do this again and again until he can feed himself..._

He edged closer and saw Italy jolt a little, turning to look toward him finally. As he shifted the plate in his grasp, easing up so he was just barely sitting on the edge of the bed, America took hold of the fork and struggled to scoop up some of the noodles. They were long, slippery things that refused to stay on the tines and he held them out, feeling clumsy and awkward. It wasn't like he hadn't fed someone before - he had - but it was usually children, and never with something that seemed as determined to slip off the fork and onto the coverlet below. Italy's eyes flicked to him, a long moment with that searching, desperate gaze fixed on him, but America's intent was clear. One way or another, this pasta was going down Italy's throat. There was still a small part of America that would very much have enjoyed doing this the hard way - the same part that was bolstered by Italy's helpless state, at being stronger than someone. He'd hated that most of all... feeling so weak.

His thoughts must have been plain on his face, from the nervous way Italy's brows furrowed, his expression troubled. Bandaged hands pawed fitfully at the coverlet for a moment as America held the fork closer, unrelenting. Italy was the first to give, lips parting a little as he leaned forward to take the food. It was all America could do to still the trembling in his hands and hold the fork steady as Italy clumsily took the mouthful.

America didn't find it comforting that Italy looked just as miserable eating the stuff as he felt having to feed it to him. The European nation chewed the gummy noodles with a soft, unhappy little whimper, only slowly swallowing it and giving a little cough. America was already holding out another forkful, and this painstaking feeding continued until both of them were shaking so much the food was starting to spill all over the blankets.

Well, Italy wasn't going to starve, at least... America gathered up the spilled noodles, trying to keep brisk and businesslike, ignoring the other nation as best he could. Turning up the covers with a flick of his wrist, he took the plate and fork, scissors tucked safely away in his pocket as he moved toward the door, never putting his back toward Italy. Once he was out in the hallway, the bolt thrown to keep his 'guest' securely penned up, he made his slow way down the stairs. His composure didn't crumble until he was in the kitchen, dropping the plate into the sink with a splintering crash that made him jump. It took long minutes bent over the running water, panting quick and shallow and sharp, before he could get his racing heart under control again.

He turned the faucet off, went up to his room and curled up beneath the covers, holding the cellular phone Canada had given him close to his chest.

-

It was no easier the second time. Or the third. Luckily, Italy was showing no inclination to either protest or complain about either the quality of the food or the necessity of being spoon-fed. It wasn't until the third day that America's tremors finally stilled completely, this routine having either immunized or at least numbed him to the feelings of fear. Nothing seemed to make the twisted knot in his belly lessen though, and it drove him back to his own room after every session, clinging to the faint remnants of his brother's scent on the bedding with the desperation of a drowning man.

On the fourth day, Italy looked up at him where he sat with bowl in hand and whispered the first words he'd said since arriving. "Grazie..." So soft, he barely heard it, then, again, in English, "T-thank you." America was on his feet and out the door before the words could really sink in. He paced the hallway, feeling the knot pulling tighter with every step.

And then, against all reason and logic, he went back into the room, standing at the foot of the bed and staring at Italy as though he could look straight through the other nation and figure out his inner workings. Italy met his gaze, looking like he wanted to dive under the blankets, or whip out his trademark white flag and begin waving it frantically.

"Ve?" A slow blinking, a searching gaze that America couldn't understand, then he leaned forward among the blankets, his voice wrung and desperate. "Scusami, America..." America stiffened at the words. He didn't have to know Italian to know what Italy was saying and he cut in, tearing through Italy's babbling with a sharp edge.

"Don't do that!" His voice came out low, almost hoarse. "Don't you say that." America's eyes narrowed, hands clenching. You have no right - he thought, none. You can apologize, but that doesn't make me obligated to accept it. He still had control over that much at least. "Don't you get it?! I'm not doing this for you. I just want you gone!"

Italy straightened up as if slapped, then he lowered his head, knees curled to his chest and America was rewarded with both satisfaction and a twinge of something that might have been guilt. He settled himself back on the edge of the bed, holding the food, waiting until Italy's small, anguished noises stopped before offering a spoonful. The look of confusion and distress on Italy's face yanked at the knot in his gut, accompanied by a wave of something new that he couldn't identify. He told himself he didn't want to.

Two more days dragged out, long and slow, and both feelings were starting to take up more room in his belly than he had to spare. Both were nameless - the twisting knot and a solid lump that seemed to grow with everything he did. Neither of them was welcome... America knew, somehow, that the two could not exist like this for long - his insides felt like they were ripping up, and at any moment, he expected to start coughing up little bits of his innards.

And Italy - Italy, who was the source of this, had to be the key to ending it, somehow... It was this realization that made the silence grating for the first time. Or perhaps, it was just that it made him hyper aware of the silence and how unnatural it felt. America was not a nation prone to keeping quiet - letting others know of his joys and unhappiness and every little thought on his mind. And when he could take it no more, when the silence was unbearable, he found himself beginning to fill it with useless babble.

He wasn't talking to Italy, so much as at him. Italy said nothing in reply - whether spurred by guilt, fear or something else that America couldn't figure out - whatever it was, it made him one of the best listeners America had found thus far.

Awkward, at first, talk about the food. Cooking the food. Italy could cook, but he didn't bring that up even if he was thinking it. He mentioned the flowers - rattling off more useless facts about roses than he'd even been aware he knew. Somewhere in it all, he began talking about animals. Cute animals, frightening animals. He had a lot of both kinds, a lot of stories that were meaningless and harmless - dogs rescuing people, the endangered status of the Spotted Owl - things to fill the void of quiet while never touching on his own feelings or fears.

Throughout it all, the nothingness of it, the nation simply sat and listened, sometimes looking at him with an expression that was almost one of shy interest. The knot began to feel less than it had been, plates gathered up after each meal with less shaking, less inclination to bolt.

And he wasn't sure what day it was, but one day, one morning right after breakfast, he ran out of oatmeal in the bowl and he kept talking.

-

It was hard to find things on the television that were really "safe" to watch. It was a given, of course, that he would skip over channels playing foreign shows, like the BBC, but it was a source of continual frustration to discover how many otherwise interesting documentaries and nature shows were ruined by the first hint of a British accent from the narrator. Salvation came when he discovered a channel playing old American TV shows - most of them in black and white. And watching them, America remembered those years and just how corny some of them were... but that didn't matter. Not when he was found himself humming along with the Beverly Hillbillies theme, smiling a bit at Lucy's crazy antics and mentally engaging in VS Matches between the Addams Family and the Munsters - the jury was still out on that one, but Morticia was still one foxy lady.

Feeding Italy came in the gap where they played repeats; America choosing to indulge in his own tastes for once, nibbling on his burger before cutting the other one into evenly sized chunks. Burgers were not the most convenient food to give a person unable to use their hands, but that was a problem overcome easily enough - or so he reasoned. He was careful to not put any sauces on it - anything that might make a mess - so it was a very simple concoction. He carted the plate up the stairs, unlocking the door with his free hand and nudging it open.

He was not prepared for the sight that greeted him on the other side. Italy was out of bed, beside it on his knees. Bandaged hands rested together, his head bent down over them. Prayer. Strange and familiar both - a large percentage of America's population were religious in some way or another, and he knew most of the doctrines and the customs. What America could not explain was the shiver of embarrassment in his belly. He was not supposed to see this... but he could not bring himself to just back out and shut the door again.

America had only ever prayed in demand - sure, he said the word 'please'... sometimes... but he tended to turn to God when he wanted something. And he was long out of practice, with so many religions, how could he justifiably take sides? So he had stopped. But even when he had been little, when he had believed in everything he'd been taught, he had never done so with the sort of reverence and desperation he was hearing in Italy's voice. He couldn't understand what Italy was saying - though he caught the change, the shift when Italy switched from Latin to his own Italian - but it still felt like he was listening in on something private.

 _"Mio Dio, mi pento e mi dolgo con tutto il cuore dei miei peccati,perché peccando ho meritato i tuoi castighi, e molto più perché ho offeso te, infinitamente buono e degno di essere amato sopra ogni cosa." Italy raised his head, and though all America could see was the mop of chestnut-colored hair, he could hear the tears hitching Italy's voice. "Propongo col tuo santo aiuto di non offenderti mai più e di fuggire le occasioni prossime del peccato. Signore, misericordia, perdonami."_ The nation seemed caught on that last word, shoulders shaking. _"Perdonami... Perdonami."_ A brief quiet, then America could hear his voice again, soft and strained, " _Mi spiace. Mi spiace. So di chiedere qualcosa che non merito, ma ho bisogno del Tuo Perdono, Signore._ "

And America was halfway through the motion of backing up when he heard something to freeze him in place.

 _"Sono qui per servirTi, o Signore. Aiutami per favore a rimediare ai miei peccati. Aiuta anche gli altri a rimediare ai loro... e che la Tua grazia possa circondare America e portargli sollievo dal suo dolore."_  
  
The sound of his own name made him tremble, not with anger, or even with fear, but with a sort of superstitious awe. What had Italy asked for, using his name? If it had been America there, bowed in prayer, he might have asked for God to smite the ones who'd hurt him - to unleash a can of holy whoop-ass on their sorry, rapist hides. Fire and brimstone and fucking plagues of locusts, the whole nine yards. But he would never have said their names in that tone. Never.

He made a noise, almost a laugh, at the mental image of the other nations being chewed on by locusts as they ran around screaming. Too late, he clapped a hand to his mouth to silence the sound, knew he had failed by the shiver in Italy's kneeling form. But the other nation still finished his prayer - whatever it was - with a soft, "Amen." before slowly straightening up, turning his head to look back over his shoulder at America. There was still the dampness of tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the light - a lost expression on his face.

"A-America..." Italy staggered to his feet, almost falling over before steadying himself against the bed. He raised his eyes to look at America before dropping them again, head ducked a little into his shoulders as if he was expecting to be hit. "I'm sorry!" A babble of words that might have been Italian, or Latin - or hell, maybe they were even English, America couldn't tell with the way the sounds all tripped over each other in their haste - and Italy struggled to climb back into the bed, flailing weakly among the covers.

How long had he been in bed? America could barely separate day from day since Italy had arrived on his doorstep... so to speak. During that time, Italy had not left the room once - America not trusting enough to allow someone to wander his halls, especially not another nation. He thought about himself, crammed in his own room, clutching his pain tight to his chest, and he wondered if it was claustrophobic for Italy. Was the cloying fear of being inside worse than the terror of having nothing solid to put his back to? America had the sudden image of himself drowning in the sticky mire of his unhappiness and guilt and he swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"I brought you food." Without preamble, as though it wasn't clear that he'd come with food, it was the only time he ever came. He set the plate down on the foot of the bed, aware of Italy's quizzical gaze and the paranoid quiver of his own innards as he moved away from the bed, still never quite putting his back to the other nation. His fingers found the catch on the window, shaking as they flipped it. That piece of glass was the heaviest thing America had ever lifted in his life...

The first hint of a breeze blew at the curtains, a small gust that began to dissipate the stale air inside. He could smell warmth on it, the hint of grass and growing things, and without thinking about it, he lowered his head until the wind drifted over his cheeks like a caress. America breathed it in, let it surround him for a moment. He'd forgotten what this felt like... somewhere in the midst of all this mess, he'd let it slip away from him. Denied himself the good, even as he pushed away the bad.

And when he padded back toward the bed, took the plate into his hands, he was aware of the other nation's searching gaze on him. Golden-brown eyes staring at him as though he was something... different. A muted awe that made America twist inside in a new way. He held out the burger pieces, noted how they fell apart immediately, making a new mess on the coverlet. It occurred to him that maybe hamburgers would have worked better if he hadn't cut them up... America tried to keep his thoughts on this nonsense rather than the odd look Italy was giving him. He liked to think he was succeeding.

-

He closed the window before he left, sensing more than seeing the look of mingled melancholy and puzzlement on Italy's face. When America sat himself back down in front of the television, it didn't feel as engaging as it had been before. After sitting through a couple of excrutiating episodes of Leave it to Beaver, he flicked to another channel. A nature documentary - only passable because he put it on mute, but still enough to catch his attention.

Without the benefit of a narrator, America began to fill the silence himself. It started out straightforward enough - simple commentary about what was happening onscreen: "The lion cubs must learn to hunt, their mother brings them live prey to help hone their skills." It went downhill rapidly as America got bored of doing such a uninteresting, straight-laced take.

First, it went action-y: "In a world, where the law of the jungle is the law of life and death, will one wolf be able to defy nature itself? Together with his pack, he will take on the challenge of the hunt - determined to bring down that buffalo or die trying! Rated R."

After a while though, it descended into complete madness: "Hey... are you lookin' at my mares? Don't you be lookin' at my mares? Don't you cross over into my territory. Oh, you crossed over into my territory! Oh no you didn't!"

After a while, even this lost its appeal and he lay on his side with the pillow drawn up against his chest, a sigh on his lips. He pushed to his feet, paced a little, then trailed his fingertips across the pane of the nearest window. Outside the house there was an endless expanse of green - he could feel the pull of it. Looking at the unfurled leaves rustling in the wind, he felt a slight stab of guilt.

He'd forgotten... America padded into the kitchen, filled up a cup of water and moved to water his three plants. Despite the drought of the past few days, they seemed to be doing better than they had been at the shop. Maybe Nate really just had no way with plants... America shifted them along the windowsill, moving them more solidly into the band of sunlight filtering in.

Then, because there was no point - or interest - in going back to the couch, he sank down into a chair around the dining room table. He brushed his palm over the wood of the table, reminded of countless birthday parties: cake and card games and heated discussions with Japan over baseball, and with everyone else over the fact that they didn't think baseball was the most awesome sport ever. He was reminded of getting drunk and watching hockey with Canada, howling in delight at every goal and scuffling together after every game because even though they might have been brothers, when it came to hockey there was no such thing as family ties. And so many other things to skitter across his memory too: dragging Estonia over to show him the new Battlestar Galactica, discussing fashion with Poland - after he'd been sworn to secrecy for discovering America's hidden addiction to Project Runway - and even wild Mardi Gras parties hanging on France's arm and throwing beads, because hey, what was the harm?

His days and nights had been full of people, of other nations, and the emptiness now, the stillness, was wrong and bitter.

But America had no idea who to trust. If he hadn't known the others of the G8 had been doing these things all this time, then what else was going on that he wasn't privy to? What if all of the G20 were up to this kind of stuff? The whole damn world, even. All of them screwing each other over in the most literal fashion. Canada was the only one he knew was safe, and he had promised himself that he wasn't going to call Canada all the way back here out of his own petty need for companionship.

For the first time in a long time, America really wished he had a dog.

America sighed and took the cup back to the sink - almost putting it away before pausing and regarding it with a long, searching look. His plants weren't the only things being neglected... He held the cup under the tap, filled it, then made his way back toward the stairs to bring the water to his 'guest'.

  
The other nation was out of bed when he pushed the door open - again - and America was beginning to think this wasn't just some kind of fluke. Italy was curled up on the floor, in a wide band of sunlight from the open window. The curtains fluttered, a breeze stirring America's hair - and how the hell had Italy gotten that open again anyway? America knew he'd locked it... From this vantage point, he couldn't see Italy's face, couldn't tell if the other nation was asleep. Did it even matter? He moved forward, intending to rouse Italy so he could give him the water and leave as expediently as possible, but his body moved with a hesitance he had not willed upon it. Not fear, but almost a delicacy - there was an odd calm to the wind, the gentle rustle of the gauzy fabric. Specks of dust drifted in the sunlight, like displaced stars... it was almost hypnotic.

As he drew near, he discovered that disturbing Italy was not the problem - Italy was already awake, watching the motes dancing in the light. His head turned as America approached, eyes open completely for once. Their gazes met and America felt some inner part of himself flinching back in uncertainty. He held out the glass, silent, watched with a sort of grim fascination as Italy stretched in slow motion, pushing himself upright. Bandaged hands reached out for the water, and he kept his own fingers on the bottom of the glass to keep it from slipping as Italy clumsily raised it to take a sip.

Italy drank in small pulls, pausing between each to breathe. There was something almost meditative about it... and America caught himself falling into the same pattern, a spell cast by the light and the warmth and that air... He had not sat like this for ages - since the initial thrill of New Age and 'hey look, Wicca!' had worn off. This was different anyway.

Water trailed down the edge of the glass, a droplet beading against his finger, and they tipped it once more - both of them, together - to get that last little bit from the bottom. Swallowed. Let out the breath that had been trapped. It was a strange feeling, like breathing out some of the anxiety... It was only his need to define what he was experiencing that kept him from leaving immediately as the glass was emptied. Instead he kept breathing. In. Out. Testing the air. Tasting it.

How long this might have continued, he would never know, as Italy broke the silence in a voice so quiet that it felt like another breeze. "Thank you."

He stiffened for a moment, tried to shrug it off. "It's not like I was going to let you die of dehydration." America could only wish his words sounded more confident than he felt. Maybe they did, and the shakiness he was hearing was only in his imagination, because Italy gave a tiny nod, not quite looking at him.

If America had hoped that would be the end of it, he was disappointed. "But you could." Stating the obvious. Of course he could. Damned if he didn't want to more often than not...

"No." And what had possessed him to speak again? The words on his lips were nothing like what he was thinking. "I couldn't." And as he said them, he realized they were true. Wanting and doing did not equate to the same thing. He could want something and never do it, or do something and not want to. But this... this was something he couldn't bring himself to think about not doing.

And if Italy had shown up on his doorstep and he had not been helpless, then it would have been a different matter entirely. But even though America could be cruel sometimes - and he admitted it, as much as there were things about himself that he hated and this... this was the biggest among them... his ability to be cruel - to take advantage of that moment of weakness and indulge in his own anger would have required exerting an effort to bury that foolish need to be the hero. Heroes turned the other cheek;- unless you were a villain, a real bad to the core "I kick puppies and laugh" kind of person, and then it was okay to hurt - okay to hate.

But, even then, didn't a hero still offer his hand - extending that one last chance to do the right thing?

The voice in his head was back, trying to remind him that movies weren't real and that heroes weren't real - and even if they were, he wasn't one, right? Part of him agreed with it and cringed, while another, much smaller part, was feeling the need to tell the first part to get a backbone and tell that voice to shove it.

Italy was still talking, but it was one word in particular that tore through his own internal dialogue and caught his attention. America looked at him, senses suddenly sharp. "What did you say?"

Something about the look in his eyes must have startled the other nation, who fretted and tugged at the edge of one sleeve. America strained to hear the words, even as Italy repeated them - a voice so soft it was less a whisper than a breath. "I... am tired of being alone."

How had he gotten to that? How much of Italy's babbling had he missed, that would have made this make sense? And yet it did make sense. Not even just for Italy - though being lonely when locked away in a room... well, it was to be expected - but for America.

America had been struggling to define the emotions he'd been feeling in the days after. So many... so easy to identify, some of them. Anger, Fear, Hate, Betrayal... god... betrayal in the worst way... and there had been others, just as strong, but harder to put a name to.

Loss. For all the things he'd had, all the things he'd shared. Family and Friendship and Love. Loss of some part of himself that he'd never known was there - that made him different from the rest of the world. It made him, himself. The loss was worse than the hate. Hate could fuel anger, at least. Loss left only emptiness in its wake.

Grief. For all of these things. For himself.

And loneliness. As Italy had said. He knew somehow that the loneliness the other nation was talking about had nothing to do with being alone. You could be by yourself and not be lonely.

You could be with someone and still be alone.

He took back the glass, held it against his chest as he stood up. He felt heavy as he moved toward the exit, pausing as he stood framed in the doorway. Glancing back over his shoulder. Italy was still sitting there cross-legged, in the same position as before with his bandaged hands draped loosely across his knees. His head was lowered so America could make out nothing of his face.

Something clawed in him at that. Where he would have continued on before - shut the door... shut Italy in -

_shut himself in_

\- he found his fingers trembling on the handle of the door instead. Fear was still there, as much of what he could do to Italy, as of Italy himself. There was no part of this that was a good idea, nothing rational and yet...

God... anything to not be alone...

"H-hey..." He didn't recognize his own voice, halting, holding tight to his courage. Golden-brown eyes raised to meet his gaze, wide, and he could read the confusion and the uncertainty in Italy. It mirrored his own. And if we're both lost, then how the hell are we supposed to find our way?

 _Don't. Don't do it._ Fear had a hold on his guts, twisting them. Fear was the master and he was the slave, cowering in terror of the lash. Anger cut through him at that image - at everything he'd worked so hard for being brought down to nothing by the force of one emotion. Whether it was wise or right didn't matter, so long as it was something he was doing because if he wasn't going to kowtow to England when he'd been weak, then he damned well wasn't going to let himself be brought to his knees when he was strong.

"I-it's boring in here, huh? You should come downstairs... there might be cartoons on..." And if there weren't - and there was always Cartoon Network - then at least America knew he still had every Disney movie ever created somewhere in his collection. Italy hesitated - it occurred to America that his attempt might be useless anyway, that Italy might refuse - but after that one brief pause, he dipped his head, just a little.

And if America was nervous as he fumbled that DVD into the player - if he kept far from Italy, who seemed content to sit on the floor in front of the television - then at least he could still laugh a little at the funny parts, still cheer inside for the exciting parts. Still cry a tear or two at the happy ending, even if he'd known it was coming - because really, he was a bit of a romantic at heart.

And if he wasn't alone, solitary and safe... then at least he wasn't lonely.

-

_And the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom_

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote at the end is from Anaïs Nin.


End file.
